After Charon: A Late Aubade

Lake River Mirror-water Yes come in
we can meet on the other side
of the obvious—the cerebrally palsied head
immortalized at fifty-five degrees,
the wet spiderwebs and cherry blossoms,
the rain crystalline by streetlight,
the wheat in its monk’s robes silently climbing
its spiral stairs. So we open up the palm
we open up the chest. We say these
are the rivers and the way home. We say
at dusk my grandmother sat in a maple chair
and ate cantaloupe. We say my you sure are
a horny bitch today. When death comes
we wear white paint and trousers
we run through the peat bogs, wailing
we climb the sides of wet brick
like orange-colored snails, coffee-colored
snails. We sit and ask to hear
the piano. After a long time
among broken stalks of sugarcane,
we hear the geese again
skimming over the surface of the world—
the fisherman unpacking his catch
over ice at the market, green peppers
sizzling at the taqueria. A little girl
rings the bell on her bicycle.
The Redskins make it to the Super Bowl.
We sleep inside a marble sun.

Sam Taylor