When the Air Was Still
by Jeffrey Side
We were together, and she fell.
Her name I could never spell.
When morning came, the trees then shaded
a sunlit spot in forest gladed.
I came upon a table polished.
God is love—but who is nourished?
A single anchor hanging down.
A ritual without a sound.
The rivers of youth and death
are now awake where they once crept.
I tamed a serpent in my hand,
and buried a woman in the sand.
Prester John has come again;
although he never left us then.
Animals now cough at night.
And clarity seems recondite.
The clouds made shadows on her chest
as she prepared for final rest.
I was born to forget my death.
I was born to count my breath.
A paper bag lived in the breeze
while my love died of a new disease.
I mourned her when the air was still,
and lay on her grave in the morning chill.
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