Stone never once spoke, my son. So why now
do you press down, waiting on words unheard
to trickle up through this, my unchosen ground?
Listen. Only the memory of birth.

I have told you already all I know: that
Love has been for me an altar, the bed
of blood a wound wound around my lefter hand’s
finger, linger —ing venipuncture. Set

not lilacs here; these burgeoning burial
plots are blossoming full. Like the fool, deaf
-hearted, you, one step from the fall,
foal-feet breaking on briars— my last breath

waking you to silence.