Call it anticipation.

           A phantom picks up the line

                                 love      is      is      is
how to learn to leave

                                 like limbs falling

                                                        from a tulip tree.

Call it memory.

           A faded rift in time

                                  that unspools until

it’s the faintest

                               bleeding below

                                                        the surface.

Call it morning

           when migrating birds

                               circle endlessly,

appear as worried apparitions,

                               blue-winged wallowers

                                                        never finding a home.

Call it swallowed tongue.

           Listening to his recorded

                               voice on repeat, saying my name,

the time. It’s dark again.

                               I can hear the distance

                                                        over a metallic cough.

Call it sacrament

           to form clumps of earth

                                 into a dampened body,

lie on top until

                       it becomes a disappearance

                                                          of self.

Call it shame.

           I give birth ex nihilo,

                      bathe in a warm potion

of oil & thyme, emerge

                                  unholy and shaken,

                                                         an abomination.