We're using every bit of your death.
We're making a vice of your mouth's clenching and loosening,
an engine of your labored breathing,
a furnace of your wide-open eyes.
We've reduced you to stock, fed you to the crown,
banked the pearl of your last anger,
stored the honey of your last smile.
Nothing's left in your mirror,
nothing's floating on your high ceiling.
We're combing pockets, turning sleeves,
shaking out bone and ash,
stripping you down to desire.
Your beloved has folded your house into his.
I'm wading in the Swift River, balancing on stones.