. . . 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.