in memory of Joe Salerno and David McMenemie
It gets dark early
and morning comes late.
The sky collects its clouds
and prepares for snow.
The trees lose their color
and wait for ice to trace their image.
The final fruit withered with the first frost.
I bury the garden and turn it under.
I pick up the last leaf to show you
to ask you its genus
to find the Celtic cross in its veins.
I have so many unanswered questions:
Is this the way you want the actors to dance?
Is this the Chinese poem that made you cry?
Is this basil seed from your pocket?
Is this the smell of mulch or musk?
Is this the taste of November?
Is this a fossil in the amber?
Is this the one?
Is this the one?
I want to ask you
show you
call to you
find the missing pieces in names
the names I don’t know
the names you always knew.
Most people who came into my house dirtied the glasses
and rearranged the shelves.
You washed the sheets
and placed a pillow under my head.
The next time I see you
I have a book of poems to give you.
How can it be that you will never open it
when I never doubted that you would be near?
How can it be that your seat will always be empty?
How can I hear in silences filled with your absence?
How could you be gone from life in your favorite month?
I have a book of poems for you.
It’s near my bed
waiting for you
waiting for the next time
I see you.
waiting apart from animation
holding hollowness.
Rows of footprints are the ghosts of graves in the ground.
Did you walk here once?
Did you touch this wall?
Did you see this tree?
Did you make tea from its roots?
Where is the path past the milkweeds?
Do you have a map I can borrow?
The roads I’ve chosen are so empty and endless.
I am in a place where no company will find me.
I cannot stand in this empty unpainted hallway.
I cannot find magnetic north in these echoes.
I cannot survive this love left unfinished.
I hear your voice in my dreams.
I drop coins on the ground.
I see you in crowds.
Someone else is wearing
your coat
your shirt
your gestures.
I catalog all the colors of despair
the shape of your fingers
the angle of your shoulders
the patterns of your stray hairs.
I know the rage of darkness.
I sink into the absence of light.
I walk with the weight of small steps.
I will never forgive you
for dying too soon
for dying without me.
I bargain with God.
I wrestle with angels.
I send messages to everyone’s gods.
I send you angels.
I pray.
I plead.
I pray.
God take me.
Take me.
Take me instead.
I cannot sleep.
I scream.
I groan.
I am silent.
My longing is infinite.
My dry throat tightens.
I howl long, low, and loud.
Howling.
Longing.
How long?
How long?
Longing.
Oh dearest lost friend
you stroked my hair
and denied me nothing
(but the first or final kisses).
Hold me.
Hold me.
Someone hold me.
Someone hold me now.
My lover touches my empty body.
He tries to warm my hands.
He breathes into his flute.
How many notes are enough
to remember the music?
How many rhythms are enough
to show me I did not leave with you?
We stand by the water waiting
for the snow to cover the sand.
We gather weathered wood, worn coral
and pieces of mollusk shells.
We toss them into the sea
with your ashes.
Even in this angriest of Autumns
the froth on the waves forms
the words that remember your face.
Stay with me in this pain between my ribs.
Stay with me through the seasons.
Stay with me.
When the birds come back
and perch on my balcony rail
I will remember enough of you
to find the way to name them.
FInding the way to names