Stephen Massimilla
Stephen Massimilla

The Pillow That Was Black

Death rebuilds old nests
and there is blue
in the woods behind the city park.

I was coming around.
All was not lost,

warded, unfleshed.
Suppose I was waking, cracked
in snow, was afterwards behind

          the palely
living universe.
         
I lay awake, considering
a step toward a kitten on a heath
of ash, by what slipped in

the sky:
     green paper sock
         on a wire, a skein of loose cash
flitting in twiggy bushes over-
arteried in marsh,

               mythy, so
methane-drunk. Corpse-light. The night was still,
but listening.
The marsh would be dead-still forever.

I missed every feeling, knowing
no god whose hell
was more ice, was echo
of a lighted cry
of what I’ve lost before I die
wanting to weep, not knowing why.