SUBJECT>The Green Season POSTER>Jenn EMAIL> DATE>1110775110 IP_ADDRESS>216-160-92-157.tukw.qwest.net PASSWORD>aaWM4ZLwJA84g PREVIOUS> NEXT> 84737 84746 84751 84766 84805 IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

The Green Season

The coroner asked if she drank, her throat swollen
to closing, front and back embracing the shape perhaps
of a mouth around a screw-top bottle, or lips sucking
juice from a too ripe pear. I could have told him
late afternoon worked best for her, lips to rim,
her arm from the window, yardarm, her armistice
with the day, the orange of her nails a slow tick of sins
along the window frame. I could have told him
we anchor ourselves by things seen, how late night
my father would come, doctor of God, taking
her temperature with a licked finger to the forehead,
a concentrated measure of essence and heat. Again
and again he bent to her, a steady bow of prayer,
as if he were bobbing for apples, or pears
ripe enough to sink his teeth into.