Daylight Savings Time

somewhere inside the hour we lose,
we lose her.

my father digs three feet down,
tenderly turns the tiny black comma

so her nose points north.

I can’t watch him teach the loose earth
to return to itself.

the full moon rises,
a tawny little organ—

deer heart, fox stomach—
a dog’s clear, rolling eye.

there is no liquid like grief—
the moon pulls it all,

and my body responds,
begins to bleed.

when I take myself to bed, I hold nothing
very close.

barely conscious, the cold wet
of her nose is a phantom against my hip—

even in sleep,
I nod to show I understand.