They pronounced her dead or
monarch of the underneath being
fragments of damp twigs, shards of
broken stones and blind auburn worms;
no wonder blue flowers grow thick
in the place where her heart lived.
Now the light remembers her like
blossoms in the depth of winter
or bright-winged birds fallen into
tiny heaps of bone and feather.
Life above, the emptied just below,
the raging blood, the yielding soil;
on a summer's day it's impossible
to separate sweetness from the bitter.