RETURN
The two of them grew old together
like gnarled grapevines
interlaced
When he began to fail she kept him
living. Her twisted fingers
shaved his stubble
and then we’d have to ask her what his
winding gabble meant. She
always knew
So much so that when he died she
couldn’t bear to have him
cut away
We were wrong to let her go on holding
his life within her
expectant veins
The day she called for him, called—
her cowbird voice
lost in the gale—
we knew how wrong. We brought her in.
She sat open-eyed waiting
and then he came