The woodland bed I go to
My mother had filled with sweet woodruff—
It formed a layer so thick our Lady cat
Slept in it, upheld by the stalks called bedstraw—
Now that my mother bends to the ground no more
I have stripped it to bare dirt—my dark
Earth, empty to the eye, rich as the grave.
Gnarled roots of mayapple have soaked for days
Outdoor in shallow water, turned by a gloved
Hand to avoid passing poison to my cat—
Lady passed from us and then the woodruff died—
The roots move softly in their own orbits as they swell.
I wait for the sign. To plant them when a pearl-bead
Appears on the jointed root. They could die
If I do this wrong. Into earth I dig shallowly & long
Lay the mayapple down to sleep & cover it over
With thick dirt moved by a bright trowel—
Until the milk-tipped body disappears—
Like a bead of semen swept away by a spent hand.
This is the Mask 
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