There is a broad forgotten flower
in the ruins of our days, rising
immaculate from the frozen earth,
its purple heart waiting for a woman’s
name: Rose, Iris, Veronica,
The story exaggerates. She never thought to ask
that her plates be cast of gold. It was the wind
cutting through the cabin that made her ask
for the house. Her poor husband—always
in danger—hardly protected on land or at sea.
Put on the sweater that has IRELAND written across the left breast and is a deep itchy green. The hiking boots from Goodwill that hang off the ends of your feet a little.
When the song said that even the sun sets on paradise
I think of you and my body breaks into mist—dear friend—
who once laughed and wept I remember sitting in the next room
hearing the low slow note of your exhale like an oboe’s mumble