After a year a different book begins to write
about you, grief not so much raw as steady.
The hole where you stood broadens to hold
everyone who no longer stands — mother,
husband, lover, friend — false hierarchy
tumbled to sand, hourglass made midden.
Not wanting is not to be desired. Enlightenment
is despair. The girl left behind when the other
is taken lives the dead girl’s life ever after.
Who remembers all the poems you wrote
this year? Your face I remember now belongs
to me. I wear it stumbling into the maw
of every new day, & the next day — every
day I wake to find you gone. This is after.
No comments:
Post a Comment