Anne Walsh: Tuesday 12th April, 2016 #12 Bear Chest

Bear Chest

 

 

The weather is my wild heart raining and this morning says nothing of morning.

My bear chest is an anvil of paws clawing your absence, that Kodiak Ache.

Your Voice is the honey my bear chest digs for, hauling up half a forest of pine.

 
As if, in her most adhesive state, loss is stuck

between her own sticky self and the sweetness and usual-ness of your voice



when you were here.

 

Now your sticky voice is everywhere it isn’t any longer

and I’m stuck to the honey of it everywhere.