CAMERON MCGILL
Following Instructions What part of her body was under my fingernails, as I sifted handfuls over the flowerbed? My shoes passing shivers to blades of grass that kept her on their tongues like shadows sunlight couldn’t shake. Her body, a coarseness; I considered a spoonful. Said flower over and over, meaning her name until something bloomed. I left her by the black rocks beneath the blue spruce, inside the unlit pagoda lantern rusting by the wooden shed, and on roses, their petals in grey motes. Syllables of her body— a coffee can of coins I carried. I was giving her back to the flowers— my voice saying delphinium assured the future. My hands a sieve raining seeds to a field; I watched them sink. Her hair in my nails; nose in my eyes; four chambers of the heart, my mouth. I left some in the bird feeder, gave her to the skyway like string in a beak. ~ Closing down the house. I left fingerprints on the sink, on the wall as I switched off her kitchen light, the door handle I turned to leave, my own face. Dorothy, I followed the instructions. I wanted to touch everything once.
Raleigh Review | 35
