Kimiko Hahn reads

Sparrow

At this moment is it painful to leave and more painful to stay. Any
residue of affection has twisted into an anger keen as a scapel.
Brilliant as a blade. Clean as glass. I wish there could be some way
for my husband, also, to want to part because everything we might
have had has eroded so flat I’m not even sure what we did have.
Was it my imagination?

          The body would like to recall humidity even
          or especially in February—
          even as the dogwood too early reddens
          then freezes the next week
          but is still not ruined.
          What of the nestled pupa, more
          uncompromising than we imagine?