I’m ready to go, I told you that night,
then started to take it back—
when I saw the blue of your eyes.
Your butter knife paused mid-air,

startled to be taken back
to the sweetness of challah bread
poised in the air. Your butter knife.
Mulberry wine turned sour.

Crusts of challah and sweetbreads.
Clocks slump. I curse my grief.
I mull berry wine, but it turns, sours.
How would you like him dressed?

I slump and grieve the curse of clocks
that cannot tell you their reasons.

How would I like him dressed?
I confess: in that month of black things,

I could not have told you the season.
I pulled out the suit you were married in
(the month you confessed to black things)
dyed a moon-eclipsed night.

Your suit. The clothes you married in.
A collared white shirt with a tie
the color of lip-swoon, night-dyed.
Ginkgo leaves swirled on a silk swath.

A white-colored shirt with a tie
that undertakes not to choke you.
Ginkgo leaves swirl on a silk cloth
in a pine box. October is a hard month.

It takes you under, chokes you,
puts blues in your eyes.
October is a hard mouth. Pined for.
You told me that night: I’m ready to go.

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