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Poetry from The Literary Review
The Fitting
MARTHA ZWEIG
End up whether tinder stones or
star-studded, either way your rags
patch rags, dearie, she chats
& dismantles my dead I submit
for the dreams in their heads & in the
torques & locks of their other bones.
She permits me to watch her work,
at it still when the water wakes up
in the jar & the bread passes, take
your time, I tell her, take mine, & my
very measurements tremble
for garb, the drapes & pins, granny
fingers floating the slightest of stuffs
to settle upon me in nimblest
adjustments, while, out behind her closet,
the earth's deep unmade beds air
indefinitely, wind over them drives
what scatters, the corners accumulate.
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