Malachi's Last Report

The chimneys stand like ribs now.
The river stopped years ago.

Someone is still whistling somewhere
a tune that's forgotten what it was for.

There was a girl feeding fire to a copper horse.
Her hands were maps of fields
that don't exist anymore.

She looked at me.
The stars are closing their eyes, she said.

Then, quieter:
Tell me what your hands once held.

I opened my mouth.
The copper caught the last light
and held it
the way a throat holds a name
it will never say.

She's gone now.
The horse is gone.
The field is just a field
if you don't know what was here.

I know.

My mouth is still open.