At The General’s Graveside

by Pippa Little

drops of light drown
the carved letters of his name

hero of war /
in love, a deserter
the cold weight of him
seeps from her wishful hands

the wind needs and needs
and is never answered
either where he ends
or how she breathes

forest of black leather, old wheels
through slit–tongued grasses,

her webbed
staying, unswayed, among

candle–barbs
stuck in standing water or
spots of smoke
on a lens
not memories nor epithelials

o weight of him
the wind needs and
is never answered
where he ends
she breathes for him

out of the dark
who breathes
who breathes