Said too much

Every whisper
Of every waking hour I'm
Choosing my confessions

I think I thought I saw you try.
Oh no, I've said too much.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The witness tree roots knit
the shale, snaking and drinking
all but rock, the dirt dense, layered,
emeralds clotted in the mud.

The grave digger's
axe cleaves
stem, root; finds
the fault, fills the
shovel and lifts, heaves the
fill to the side.

He will put her here; back her up
so she never sees, the turned earth. His fingers
pressing into her shoulders,
her gaze on the
lark, his voice slow,
stepping her back, like
a skittish mare into a stall.

He will not aim, will not attend.

He circles her waist, takes his left hand
and strokes her hair back, pulls his palm along her
skull until his index finger rests behind her
ear lobe and he replaces it with the muzzle,
no hesitation allowed.

She does not fall back
as expected, but rather her
legs collapse, as if this were
the moment she could stand
no more.

The grave digger lifts his
shovel and fills the dirt until all
that remains is the mistaken impression
of the earth rising and falling with her breathing
in the waning
moonlight.

Later, he would believe he heard her breathe
and the leaves of the witness tree would
turn over, ready for rain.