You won’t remember the pig’s head
hanging from a tree
at the end of this poem

and I, most likely, will forget

the pattern of yellow petals
blowing across
your softest sweater.

When you watch me
grip the hatchet, I become
a hatchet–

notched oak handle,
cold steel head.

When I glimpse you standing
by the woodpile and hear

you gasp, you become the gasp

until later you become
damp smoke. Then crying.
Then whiskey.

I’m not these words, though
I expect you think I am.

I’m taillights disappearing.

I’m what’s hanging still
from a tree in brown light
at the edge of the yard.