David Mura



A wound is a blossom
but only to the living.
A May night, birdsong

before the first light pierces,
chirps out of blackness:
My daughter's angry at me

and her mother as I
was once angry at mine.
It's a way of crossing over.

I'm so tired now.
And my core's
all water, flowing

somewhere where the sea
can't find her. And neither
can I. How much longer

till I finally lose her? Where
is the first dawn wet blossom?
Who recalls how I touched