Because You Are Dead You Think You Can Have Anything You Want
Dannye Romine Powell
You come back, bent over my things like a collector, hunched, touching, wanting to lay claim to everything. No, not everything. Only what I cleaved to after you died. My Moon Book, its midnight cover and parchment pages, its luminous drawings steeped in liquid gold. Take the Limoges, I say, The cut glass pitcher. Please, not the Moon Book, its cloth corners worn, its ghostly pages drenched with longing. My Moon Book? I repeat, hoping I’d heard wrong. Yes, you say, your hand outstretched.