Portia

Portia coughed the ashes up and
she rose again


every sorrow which had rendered her
leaden veined


blew heedless in the wind, dissembled.


The map of grief was gone, there was no
destination


the door shut on the cartographer wielding
exhausted vellum


and she slept two days on that embroidered pillow.


Having eaten and been
swallowed by death


Some things seemed small,
now


nothing colossal as a kiss on the arm,


as finally something sweet on the tongue,


as blue as new day,


these the gods.