Saturday Poem

JUST IRENA

You died at the muddy end
of a rutted drive
near a mill pond—
thirsty,

and you died unkempt
as your blueberry patch
where I used to kneel,
eating my fill.

You died
perfumed with cat piss
and mouldy hay,

without a man
to hitch up a plow
or pick up a hammer.

The wind
undid your shingles
one by one
undressing you,

and the roof
came down
around you,

and you died
with crows in your hair
and rain in your mouth
and wind in the chimney.

Fires went out
windows broke
and mice even now
eat the straw in your cot.

From Rue Saint Famille (1990) by Charlotte Hussey.