Becky Kennedy


It’s morning and the sky has
begun to be written in
sunlight, dawn stepping through the
leaves to break the longing of
summer lawns and the curtains
washing in the new light that
reaches past me like a dusk
settling in trees. Where, beyond.
It might have been night in the
garden where you might be curled
like a question mark in your
valley of grass. You might have
been reading and you rub your
eyes and smile; I’ve looked for you
forever and the trees are
sheeted in the summer dark,
the willow rusks flashing like
snow; the spade and the rake sleep
against the shed, night-brightened
things made small in distant light
and you died and the morning
is done and what must have been
the evening is done, likewise.