She used to sit between the dragonfly’s wings
Giving words to the dragonfly’s song.
He was with her when she fell.
She was so tiny—forefinger to thumb —
That he just picked her up,
In his hand.
Her dragonfly already expired,
So she could no longer spur the wind on with her heels.
He carried her
Though her songs unwove themselves,
Though she would not eat.
He cradled her
Until her eyelashes flashed white-shut,
And her elbows stopped twitching.
And then, trembling,
He cupped her between palms,
Embalming her in the salty long lifelines on his skin.
If you ever find me,
To make me your own,
Let me curl up like that,
Strange and somber
In the palm of your hand.
This, alighting with you,
Could b our love– a small lean-to
In the land of the dead.