It’s time I stopped digging you up -
only to contort you into some new position,
place a fountain pen in your hand, a cigarette,
a daisy with one petal, or a piece of granite
from the lake-shore.
It’s time I stopped digging you up –
to look at you, or tilt your chin towards me.
Once, I removed your tattoos, inked a new one
“He loves me he loves me not …”
I enjoyed watching; pretend it didn’t hurt.
I know you’re supposed to be sleeping,
but I swear I saw your number
come up on my phone last week.
Did you ever find that plane ticket in your pocket
dated a year from the day I placed it there?
Or the love poem I wrote before I knew you?
I wonder if you later read it to someone else, a lover,
her long dark hair splashed across the pillows
your mouth so close to the oyster shell she could hear the sea?
When I dug you up to ask you were turned
away from me. There was no note only a view,
the broad of your back. Only I was left, crouched
in a wheat field, earth clumped hard in my fists.