Enchantment
by Timothy Dodd
for Triis
I have searched long
bedrooms
for the knife lying
under fragmented bloom
to know the stained sunsets
of her dystrophic legs
are more graceful.
I am among the last remaining
to love the lifeless cormorant,
crippled fog and furze, opened tombs—
among the last to say
another baby
isn’t needed,
that the dead rise.