When my phone said she died, my eyeballs burst wide
to keep the shock weeping under my skin but it slid out
in little breaths and tears that became less polite.
Animals in the woods are suffering, laid bare out there
on the pine needles, or flattened onto the winding road.
No roof, no act of mercy makes up a different end.
The elements become us as we become them over again,
each return disordered like a game of Operator. My arm
will be a butterfly, or her eyes beach glass, or gas,
something other things breathe as a last breath. Parting.
Carefully a tempest is my mourning. Really has she gone.