over my eyes. I was an animal
kept warm, but why? Then light bleached the bed,
I sat up from my coffin—
My friend tells me her dream and I listen fully.
Ten dark-robed men stood nearby:
their presence surprised, like the earth mined,
or mountains gullied by time,
ten times the sharp incline and decline of the road.
One helped me step out,
and I stood, in my nightdress, the cold like a shower,
and the coffin folded like a suitcase on a dusty plain;
then the men left for the glacier points, perhaps to cave
or star or even higher.
They’d left her, not with food or water, but a memory—
about her son and daughter picking flowers.
I stood in a bowl of sand with seeds scattered among stones,
mountains on the far rim;
my hands searched the grains,
but change brought tears—and so the watered seeds awakened
until the grey alluvia bloomed,
grass hid the prairie in wind.
I gathered the hum of shortened shadows,
the petal’s face, the turn of hours,
the bees’ rhyme from asphodel to zinnia.
I counted fern-traced stones, sought
the touch of green, its smell…
Sometimes I spied the spill of contents
from that abandoned coffin, left to rot: stained plate and cup,
a faded garment—
then forgot as small animals, born to delight, stirred and crept.
They look like little marmots—first, the flowers
and then the children. It is a dream of marmots.
Then I crept from that rich garden
and stood at the mountain limit, my eyes ached at the sky
and opened to a glimpse of heaven,
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