even before time has scrubbed the stains of life from its trembling hands,
even before the heart and mind have unveiled their infinite mirrors of denial,
from she and her,
death had birthed a body.
it needs to be covered.
it needs to be moved.
the oil lamp in the corner scorches the air that last burst free from her lungs.
it lies on ice.
it is covered with flowers.
one marigold is already wilting on the summer floor.
they lift it,
four shoulders where once she was cradled in four arms.
to the fire.
to the light.
like a tortoise shell,
that it carries away as it leaves,
and the sky rushes into the emptiness,
grey and cold.
i rest my head on the cloud walls
and we try to weep together,
the porch wet with stars,
with time, the spots on its hands now raw and bruised,
with the mirrors, within the mirrors.
she was born.
she was gone.
when death birthed a body.
without her name.
without her pain.