print previewback SARAH CROSSLAND
Death Mask
after L’Inconnue de la Seine
If beauty is silent as a bee’s nest,
pinioned to bark and striped
with winter. Always almost
wakeful—her face, cast the gray
of a lark’s throat, goathide, stone-
skinned, cannot—anymore—
have a wish in its lips. What,
behind her eyes, brought this
smile and fixed it? A bloom
of thunder over the sleepless
city, a mother’s gift, the slip—
wet lace, wet trim—the river
gives as a girl sinks into it.
There are days we forget
death, but splint of shadow,
the body remembers its debt—
like a ghost returned
to remind us of its name. 
Death Mask
Hush