Where You Fell

The snow held your shape like bedding,
the shadow of your hand over your head ruined
by the feet of the men who found and carried you.

I stayed in your house for a day, following your habits,
coatless to the shed and back. I finished the wood
you’d begun to split, feeling the heft of the axe

as you felt it. We are always becoming what
we lose. They will say they saw a fox whisper
into your ear. They will never come back.

I pawed the snow to form your hand again,
your sleeping profile. Then I pressed my face
to the mold of your cheek and I became you.

Jennifer Fumiko Cahill

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RL