Leave me here
amidst the underworld
of pickaxes. Anvils. Work
horses and sawdust.

The afternoon light
was the texture of language—

dust before a death.

I want to release
memory. Pull this torture
away from its own
handle

and watch its heft fall
like a feather striking
a body.

Don't let me
remember my son every time
a hawk's shadow moves
over the earth.

I can't forget the edge
of a wing pressed
into being,

a ghost of beeswax
glazing my old thumb.

The last time I observed light
was remarkable enough
to kill me.

I remember the soar
of his laughter
as he took off.