Dry Morning Sunday

By Chloe Jaques 

Angry eyed, 

a glance toward the house reveals 

a stricter picture than I thought might 

be there, still and burning, 

I come in from the woods. 

And you see me wind through the fields in the window, face colored red from candy-apple panes, 

stained-glass and dusty, 

you see me through saints 

as I make my way through. 

I have never quite managed to cross the threshold here, where you have been so busy, 

You have made your sacrifices, 

made your pastry, 

where it rises like an angel to the Lord. 

I am always just coming in from the woods. 

I usually brush by the headstones, 

the ones in the old plot, 

and sometimes the weeds seem to shiver away from the tread of my boots. 

I think I will die in the field, very old, 

unwittingly stealing the grave of another 

as I lie down in the sun-soaked dust. 

Never quite saw the problem with dying alone, leaving not all that much of a trace, 

just my body; 

leaving no other grief but my own.