one more last

                                  

           When the bear dies, bees construct

honey from nectar of cinquefoil growing through rib bones.

                    Donald Hall                                                              “Granite and Grass”

The falling down right there where it happened, the sudden

seizure of the vein or spasm in the calf, or half-

way to the bathroom to take more than what’s prescribed—

so much more it’s litter, it’s blots of paper-towel

on the carpet soaking through, a nasal landmine. 

I can’t ask but I want to know who found her that one last

time and if they called an ambulance right away

or let her stay this one more last time in the house, this one more

last time with a cat, this one more last early November morning—

were there a pile of turnips now on the weekend

news, was the garden, all of it, finally put up, was bread

in the oven?  Because the last time, and the time before

that last time it was June, it was December, and the wood

stove was going and the flue was open too much

and the cherry glow of the stove pipe crept up to the to the tin

ceiling, a blush like it’s wanted, a hand beneath the blouse,

before, days or weeks, no years before me before, the glance

at it all, the corked effervescent stored in a green bottle, ribboned

at the neck, presented…

I’ve lived my life wondering not who uncorked it for her, or

who poured it, or who seduced her throat, not that.  There’s five

fingers on every hand.  Who can blame just one?  No, I’ve

wanted to know who found her after it was all swallowed, after

her sweet sashay back into the room for more.  Who waited

this one last time, and if she saw them and turned toward them
or away.