All the Kinds of Yes
 
She made bread, and let me place it
in her mouth still warm. She sings a hymn
I haven't thought about in fourteen years;
I hear it double-throated in my voice and hers,
And can almost believe the words. She built,
on a winter's night, the fire into something
old and deep. I close my eyes and stare
at the unshaded light to see the color of her hair.
And her fingertips' oils still on my skin.
They are the scent of apple wood. Soon
she will find a blue stone in the arroyo, the dry river
that flows past her house will continue to the sea overthrown,
And in a pale room, at night, she will wash past
the drought that comes to every life, the nothingness
that sluices above the time to come and I will bend
over her sleeping form and tell her all the kinds of yes.