. . . the inner word you want, that fugitive, unfaithful

               word wed now to silence. 

               —Margaret Gibson, “Forgetting”

Every night I come to see

if the orchid blossom’s opened.

Night when I don’t

or can’t move any farther;

or when what by day I measure

in space as movement

becomes by night

more measurable in stillness;

or when what by day I measure forward

must by night be measured

back.  Tonight my body says

you’re just beyond the wall.

I search and search for the chink

though I’ve heard the old story:

the lion, the mulberry tree.

Remember, in June:

               I point to a tree, saying

               these are mulberries.

               You tug a branch close for me;

               unripe pink nubs

               cascade over your hair. . .

Tonight the orchid’s unfurled

just one petal.

Backward through my body comes

the story, less story now

than mourning song.

I sing it,

ripe as blood,

certainly torn apart.