21 May, 2017
Plummets
Late August. The last dregs of summer pour out
in murky and tepid sunlight. It lingers briefly over
immiscible surfaces, glistening. Another year
ruined. You are missed by all the places you bruised
with your love and your leave-taking. Numbed, plumb
full of treachery I am pulled down and dawn
to dusk must drag the depths of memory
for stray remnants
or traces
of you. Everything once luminous now emerges
morbidly tumescent,
tear-logged
misshapen. Each time I resurface
my gradually unhinging
bones clink
clatter, rush forward to scoop up
anything I have retrieved
(scum shell salt silt)
wailing out with gratitude. This can’t be it,
this can’t be it, this can’t be it. I wring
my grief each time I weep.
Whet the heart with every blink and breath.