We all said the same thing, bad news;
her best friend who can’t believe she won’t
just walk through the door. And those of us
who thought she still breathed, who thought
she almost stirred; but that was just a gust of air
through the open window, lifting the chequered scarf
around her neck, her dark red hair;
I noticed how the heavy velvet curtain moved.
And still we can’t believe the sea sound
of her womb is hushed, her flamy hair won’t re-ignite,
how could its hundred thousand fires be doused,
and those hands, their fifty four small separate bones
reduce to ashy dust, or any night swallow up
their twenty moons when no dark is a dark enough?