we were waiting in the spring
for our bodies to return
waiting in the fall
and waiting in the winter
for the dead to see our shadows
the forsythia exploded
was it dew or was it weeping
there was hell smeared on our faces
in the morning
as we mixed the silt with blood
you could wash it off with anger
it was there again that evening
we collided with the future
was it spring or all desertion
the risk, the total starlessness
the branches and the broken thorns
the dead arrived to ask us
and I went outside without you
when the winter came I lost you
when the spring came
through the hurrying doves
was this our punishment
come here and look
the clematis is fragrant
see it climb the trellis
where the soul was
indivisible
the surface of the river
fills with light, the spring
already fading
are they questions
are they prayers
We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.