bread thrown & bloated, as if speaking                                                      the sin
                        out loud could make the sun into a button, holding                          shut
the split of seasons sharpened in flame, blurred smoke                                           &
                        birds dropping from blackened sky                              somewhere
over new mexico, though today is not outside time, it’s                  inside

a clock struck again & again by a granite fist; us              masked

& rocking as if the word could set the birds down
                                                                                                                                   in softness,
with yitgadal v’yitkadash—             the knot
is that i’m trying to make this neat for you: birds &
            sky & triangles pinned in pink & yellow, rutabaga & snow
the color of what’s left: a pillowcase filled with tangles
                                                               she made to stay alive.            one for each day
i can’t unknot                          now
            (hidden in caves, the children watching what was done)—
but please don’t say i’m sorry.                                             say clove hitch.
                                                                                                                shroud knot.
                                                                                                     butcher’s loop.

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