She had a death in me

She had a death in me, knees drawn up and my bowl and cloth rinsed through with her. As morning takes night, field closes the hare, and ay would burrow into her. Over the altar, catalpas rattle, shadow and bother the branch. Is this her white? Dress me. Her rain? Wash me with that. Her bowl? Feed me empty. Her colding? Ay am forgot. Then mask me the g’wen, hers skin being mine, and body that pools in the brine of her, rivers the silt and stone of her wrapt in the warm of hers fell. She were the watcher and tender of pyres when the wet grass shined with quiet and ay lean to the mouth hole:ay, mother.