“If in letter form she had left…”
if in letter form she had left,
in silken warp and mullberry weft,
in mint julep's ink of fenugreek,
or glass ring stains on the table's teak.
still my fur would bristle, would heavily seek
her catholic lungs opening in hinged dyptych
and perhaps her milky finger would write the best
in an April nest, on its whitethorn twigged desk
picking, weaving pollen into a vellum vest
a psalter in script so over dressed,
so my eye and ley should they ever wrest,
the robin's rubric red from her yearning breast.