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"I alone
have lived
to tell you"
that the body
had not, to any
degree worth
the remark, suffered
injury, that
the row
of vertebrae
still curved, supple
to the touch, dog-
wood petals
in a blonde
braid, the shoulder
blades still spread
their chevrons,
and the pelvis
poised, as though his final
walk had ended
in mid-stride.
I could myself,
a man of no
imagination,
imagine dropping
to one knee,
my forehead against his
thighs, my hands fitted
to his calves, the one foot
cocked up, favoring
the severed
tendon--
 until
we bent
to brush away
the ash, and it all
gave way to the ash,
bone and spearhead
and helmet, the whole
world before Paris
gone to ash, one
cheekpiece still
molten over the coals,
and with it this
sprig of red-gold
hair, stiffly
upright, like the ear
of a hound primed
to answer to only one
man's voice.
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