with splinters flying everywhere,
narrowly missing my pupils,
I hear her whisper behind me
that the cold is over
and she should get going.
she had been seeing angels
in trees lately, green and gold,
talking about her dead husband again:
the dead are the morticians & butchers to touch.
she paraphrases and walks away,
just as they all do, just as always I look the other direction,
splitting wood, listening to lawnmowers
in the distance, and wondering
why being used is better
than being in love with lethargy.
when I turned,
she is gone, up the road
in gown from last night's hospital dance,
where we spit shook and introduction
and had sex in silence;
we didn't sleep in the same bed,
but I brought her coffee and a rose.
I try to wink,
but I can't,
so I throw the hatchet
into the cypress tree
that will one day
crush my church.