Aubade
—For Magdalene

Braid your breath with my hair
as the light approaches—
when it comes in close, listen.

There—at the nape of my
neck, in the place where you
pulled it—braid it

with the thorns—then pierce 
the lung, the wrist from 
where it flows.

Bring your breath 
to the morning—
when the tomb is pulled

back, found empty,
bring it as the evidence
of— 

when I sat at your table,
drank your wine, 
my breath catching—

the first, our last, 
the dying one. Listen 
for it—

for the light in your lungs,
how it approaches us now as
our jaws turn away.

Listen—
for the sound of it, for the
breath when I open your mouth.