Her flesh and she and a muddy leaf
had the same memories of him.
What she would recall was the smell
of dirt roads, the webs hung
among the trees, the ripples
in the pond where fish pecked
at fallen gnats. His voice
would be the drone of cicadas,
his face a cloud, changing
every time she looked at the past.
Mary is yet another heteronym. I think at some point the whole bunch of them (plus myself) will have poems titled “After.” It seems to be a favorite theme among the group.