I’ve brought my own bonnet.
When the good Lord comes: ready!
But I keep shifting like April snow
out of my own photo.

The part of me that can’t be seen,
that’s the unrolled stone (Hallelujah!),
that’s the black screw turned tighter
into the bedstead. It’s the sighing

falsehood of ice eating all of the pond’s
air, a rocker stilled on dark varnish,
a frozen chicken skin in the mud.
Yes, that’s the black almond

of my eye and the bitter lens
before it. Don’t think I don’t
get this pretense of healing.
Note the careful bow at my throat.