Stonecrop
In the crop of stone,
your ink was ripe.
Like stonecrop
with no stone,
the dying inherit
the dead, cut
what they can’t
untie. They chew
but never swallow:
God alone is full.
It saw what is fragile
break.
(in memory of Rachel Wetzsteon and Sarah Hannah)
***
Don Share is Senior Editor of Poetry magazine. His books of poems are Squandermania; Union; and The Traumatophile; forthcoming are two books about the poet Basil Bunting. His translation of Miguel Hernández, I Have Lots of Heart, received the TLS Translation Prize and the PEN/New England Discovery Award.
