_46. Real Bodies (2)

It flooded that March.
We kept our ears to the ground
and listened to the water table rise,
the corn send down new roots.
Dinners at your house your mother made fish
and your father said nothing.
But you wrote it all down
late evenings with a notebook and a radio.
You wanted to be a poet
you had all the words
the sweet nouns and the oranges I left you.
Out under the heavenly bodies of spring
we opened up our chests to the
sky and its arrangement of light.
We had it all: the car, freedom,
a hallowed horizon
most of all each other
the sighing sound when
I bit your clavicle
and new wind coming over the plains.