Post-Mortem
—after Madeleine Cravens
not the pressure of pastures but the pressure of clovers,
a pressure like summer, sudden and prayed for,
not the pressure of marriage but the pressure of over,
of birthdays, of neighbors living shoulder to shoulder,
not the pressure of hedges but the pressure of mergers,
the pressure of cleavers and laughter and closure, asleep
on the sofa, afraid of the answer, the pressure of levees,
their hairlines and junctures, not the pressure of children
but the pressure of orchards, not the pressure of errors
but the pressure of over, the pressure of friendships like
rivers, their surges in summer, their eddies and thunder,
the pressure of firstborns as fodder, precious daughters
still afloat in the water, not the pressure of climate
but the pressure of clutter, of dry heaving, over and over,
not the pressure of pensions but the pressure of peddlers,
fishing for answers, unflinching and sober, not the pressure
of pastors but the pressure of ushers, the passing of fathers,
not the pressure of patter but the pressure of patterns,
our crushes-turned-crutches, neither friends nor lovers,
the pleasure of stolen laughter, your failure to write me
one final letter, the pressure of settlers, the terror of never,
not the pressure of climax but the pressure of closure,
not the pressure of bridges but the pressure of over
Pre-Mortem
—after Madeleine Cravens
not the pleasure of leather but the pleasure of lessons,
a pleasure like butter, seared and slathered,
not the pleasure of heaven but the pleasure of after,
of life lines, of lovers caught in late night rapture,
not the pleasure of courtship but the pleasure of capture,
the pleasure of letters and butter and lobsters, nestled
in linen, unable to answer, the pleasure of curtains,
their sun-dappled shadows, not the pleasure of tables
but the pleasure of ledgers, not the pleasure of labor
but the pleasure of after, the pleasure of children like sudden
strangers, their night terrors and laughter, their buttons
and banter, the pleasure of leather like butter, thick porridge
simmered after supper, not the pleasure of suburbs
but the pleasure of callers, our questions curtailed for later,
not the pleasure of weddings but the pleasure of theater,
of tethers and the tremor of lovers-turned-strangers,
not the pleasure of effort but the pleasure of levers,
your promise to call me after, your unleavened answers,
that lived-in laughter, the pleasure of folded sweaters,
the pressure of sidewalks unblemished in summer,
the premise of lobsters, the terror of better, not
the pleasure of showers but the pleasure of lather,
not the pleasure of silence but the pleasure of after
