Ross (4)

Anna
Ross

Styx

This day I see you dune red and birthed
to a ligament of months, numbered

in the particular nod and tilt of evening. Here

is the mullioned river I cross each hour.

To the eight-clawed dragon boats who follow,

I offer cloth to burn and scatter, and a punctured

breath to swallow whole. Each night you dreamt

of walking with your hair fallen down in widow’s

curls, walked until your feet bled of joy and
spoke about it as others do of flight, the first step

a gliding, feathers caught in the updraft, then

a hollow-boned lifting to perch. These years

since, I have climbed three mountains,
washed five countries from my face,

and my stubbled scalp has grown drumlin
smoothed, cold as an anniversary.

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