The crock pot still slow
    cooks the meat. And isn’t counting
       how many people yum

the broken-down flesh
    of the animal. I used to eat off
       love—so many big-boned

days in a row. The TV isn’t watching
    both of us anymore—off & on again,
       now just off. And so what?

You’re gone & I still go botanical
    for church Sunday mornings.
       Still stop at every sharp-turned

bloom and arrogant life. I still pay
    my respects to ecology’s
       genius. The burrowing owl

makes a home in the whet-
    bladed skin of the saguaro
       cactus—every day still lucky

to be spared by the sun’s unyielding
    fury. The hummingbirds still got us
       all beat on number

of beats per minute. Think they’re the only animal
    in the known universe still gifted
       with heart muscles. They go forth

with nectar as nectar—
    not metaphor for another bird.
       And so what? We used to drink

straight from the tap of each other’s
    ecstasy. Took turns stirring the pot,
       sucking gristle off bone.