I wasted away to a sprig of rosemary.
I grew as translucent as a nightgown.
I saw my own worthlessness in everything—
a receding tideline or hairline,
a late train, an early frost.
I broke every bone in the sky
and then reconstructed its skull,
the sun and moon its eyes,
the earth its burning brain.
I cut the kindling. I struck the match.
My bangs were a fringe of pine needles
and caught quickly. The fire fit
like an off-the-rack wedding dress.
My mouth was full of blackberries.
It was more sweetness than I could bear.
