The Ghosts

From the field she calls John, John. O
remember then the quick fall
of daylight on her dress, the field
sprigged with blue-eyed grasses.
It is the first morning of the world. Only
here among the bloodroot, under
the thick, white flowers, he sees the sun
pick at a rabbit, left behind
by winter. Memory replaces
worship. And she watches
his thigh pressed to the stove,
the implacable spread of frost
on the windowpane. It is night. The babies
are all gone. Humming she hears the first
star’s tentative, hungry words. He has been
held there for years. The moon
has washed his face of all blood.