Footnote, Part I

Another self-absorbed rumination on past events and their consequences.

I

They don’t want to hear mine any more than
I want to hear theirs
Theirs the story, theirs the want
A field of splintered gold and sawdust feathers
Will trail from my fingertips to escape you.

Warming water in an iron pail
Rub me with your salt and fingers
Make me out of the rusty clay to listen for you
They want to hear your knuckles on my clammy cheek
And whine, wine the brandy ichors inside

I cannot see them.
You raise a lash to heighten the stars.
Sleep hasn’t come for three brittle days
But you say we have a minute.

There is no time now for tick-away stops.
Carry me. Into the mill. Begin.