Sierra DeMulder


The coffee she brings me
in bed becomes cold
before I can finish it.

My new sweatshirt
already has a stain.

The irises that circle
our house flower for
barely a week.

The old dog is sleeping more,
her muscles atrophied
to wet canvas.

Tonight, a ravenous sunset
swells and heaves
across our backyard,

a body in pleasure,
only to be absorbed
into darkness like
sweat on flesh.

Even my daughter—
who needs me now
as she will never
need me again—

nursing at my breast
as I write this,
will be walking
by the time it is read.

The impermanence
of enjoyment is everywhere:

the swiftness of peonies,
a calendar left on
the wrong month.

I am watching my life pass.
I am watching my lover’s body
soften, her skin speckled
as a robin’s egg.

Isn’t it intoxicating—
the ecstatic briefness of it all?