One day I will go to her
          feet uprooted and covered in loam,
without my body
                              bloated
like it was in the spring
when she shivvered
          under my buckeye tree
and threw seeds at passing cars.

She used to think that she could see
          her shadow from that bridge
                    when I walked with her at 1am,
                    cast onto the
                    naked treetops
                    and the
                                        splitsecond reflection
                    of her flashlight
          against the cover of clouds
as she stood in her alcove,
inhaled the smell of boxwood and remembered
                                                 the taste of hot copper in her mouth,
                                                 the long-legged spiders
          that tread weightless
                    up her fingers
when she found them
on her grandmother's
                    sunbleached kitchen windowsill.