(after the death of Wislawa Szymborska, February 1, 2012)
I take the petit four
of your poem and put
it in my mouth;
let my tongue soak it up—
soft words
dissolving
softly
as a
spring weekend
—inhale the sugar flower.
The decadent scrim
of icing glosses over
everything.
“The sun rises and the sun
sets and I eat
this cake and you are
no longer in this world.
A violet grows on the verge
of a yard and a street;
efficiently
crystallizes in another poet’s
greedy panting
despite your vacant house,
your supercilious cat
and your mouth that
will never eat cake again.
I am eating
cake and I am not
efficient. Pieces of your
poem clot against my teeth
and I cannot speak.