little wife

for both poes

before the ink was flat black she
eased the paper from my fingers

the smallest hands
hiding the absinthe

thirteen and coaxing ravens
to her window with strands of raven hair

such whiteness her face
whirling

have you ever looked an angel
in the mouth?

maybe she died the day we met
everything glistening

kissing cousins
sister bliss

thirteen won’t leave your side
of the family.

i wrote of young girls
their already-dead-ness--

her hands back
half bloodied from the coughs