Sunday Morning

I waste. The water
looks red sometimes
as if it were your hair
or a penny-scar
from when the tree
let you go. Red beads
on the grass blades:
we expected as much.
We were taught
to play, to love
the honed thing after
death. When you
touched yourself
I was alone.
The doorway held
your father while
your mother made
the stair. Once
I left in the middle
of the night; I needed
to go home. Somewhere
the land is full
of what I felt
we needed.