Decoding the Poem

And the cardinal is December. And in December
there was blood and a wavering light. You describe
a flock of wild hair and it is that hair that makes me
keep still. I hold the phrase white tissue with my fingers
as if it is very small and broken. And there, I see
that you want me to touch a thing more dense
than air, but I know that you cry when you write
your letters and the lack of stars
does not mean you are lonely, but only
that you are very alone, in that moment.
And there you place moodiness and there
you set grief, just as we did,
at the kitchen table
after you lost the baby. And there it is again-
December. And as always, December
is put there sneakily to make me think
that a staircase is a door, but I know you
and this door is a hole
or wound that you walk through.

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