Worth

© Beth Roberts

On a day fresh as a haircut I left the family for the field. I looked hard for the body. Where drifts of light leaned into pockets of rot, of not, in fact, it was best. There were word in the woods: shiver   for needles, veinous   for moss, matter for the hour or the forest floor. Whether they were well spent depends on their worth. But while ether disentangled the antlers and the roots, there was one note. With a hint of meaning, being bent. In the voice of a bird. One clean run through to the night, and it sounded like   new. It sounded like   you. I found the body, looking, and it cost too much.