Tagged: family

the first day of the

the first day of the
rest of our lives starts like a
simple bouquet – matched

and mismatched, friends and family,
until death do us part

because there is no

every time we come

every time we come
back together, after spending
many moons apart,

there is a collective sigh,
a letting go of defenses

on the seventh

on the seventh
anniversary of your
death, i announce
it the way one
notes it’s saturday,
close my heart
off for the rest
of the day, tune
in to everything
so there is no room
for the hunter

there is a sense of

there is a sense of
disconnection here,
on the four-thousand-
year, raising red lanterns
because everyone
else is doing it

christmas morning, you

christmas morning, you
are reading to me a new
old book, 1963,
james baldwin.

wait, go back, i say,
and we read again,
out loud, and i reread
the passage to
myself, stuck
in strands of time and
the historical now, and
i have no right to the
sudden lump in my
throat, so i don’t
ask if you too are
struggling, not
together, but
separately, to
make sense of it,
the meaning behind the
words behind
the words.

we pause
here until some
unforeseeable spring,
promise to pick it up
right where we left off,
while secretly
stealing the solitude,
the hours and
years of nakedness,
required to face
the fire next time

somewhere where my heart

somewhere where my heart
has gone into hiding, curtains
sway ever so slightly
with the repeated
melody of you escaping
through the cracks,
like light, air, a double-
trill, fingers still
reaching for that
practiced evenness