The Pantheist Who Loved His Wife
Everyone knew that someone
had killed his wife,
someone had taken her
bright black hair, her small, thin bones
into the woods by the high school
and heaped them near the river
singing its sparks over black stones.
And there were flowers, tiny
white ones and violets he knew
better than to pick-they would be
limp, shriveled before she was
buried. He let police follow him
through fields and ravines, calling her
to call back from the earth. He knew
she was living everywhere now.
Structure
15 lines · 3 stanzas