Necromancer
for Shauna
The chicory is in bloom
and the solidagos are taller
than me, their hairy fingers
gilded with golden dust,
quaking in the afternoon
breeze, whirring with bees.
Pearly Everlasting, yellow eyes
wrapped in thin paper husks,
stare uneasily in all directions.
*
The landscape is blazing
with amber and gold,
and on this quiet stretch
of trail, I can recall
your voice, how you
shook a ponytail free,
how you gripped
your pen when your
time was wasted,
how you wore a watch
set to the needs
of your dogs -
and in these memories,
darkness blooms
beneath my feet,
panic coiling,
springing loose,
supersonic scream
dropping dead two fawn,
the doe, the fat groundhog
with its mouthful of clover.
*
Every August
we lounged on a blanket
by the river,
years of friendship,
fingers wandering piles
of green river rock
we’d collected after lunch,
huckleberries, cashews, cukes,
and cherry tomatoes,
sitting cross legged in cowboy hats,
I praised your breasts
in your black bikini.
You waggled them
in response, dark hair
burnished by the sun.
They’re mighty, aren’t they?
You tossed a tomato at me
which I caught in my mouth.
Indeed, I said, seed squirting
loose, making us laugh.
Worthy of great celebration.
*
Later, on the hike to the car
you paused on the trail,
uncapped your canteen
and casually mentioned
the vast stretch of sorrow
that lives just under the surface,
offered me a glimpse, as if by mistake
- frozen winter lake reflecting
mountains capped with snow-
and I slowed, confused,
leaned closer to peer,
questions forming
when you drew the curtain,
capped your bottle,
shifted your pack
and began to walk
at a quickened pace,
your back stiff, turned away.
*
Later we met friends at a club,
squeezed lime into frozen mugs
frothing with PBR and danced.
I love you! you said,
and we waltzed to a pop song
in order to catch our breath.
We shared a pillow that night,
our ankles touching,
carafe of coffee in the morning.
Don’t talk until the second cup,
you warned.
I loved you for that.
*
Today, horror feeds
a furnace of rage
-you died by suicide -
and my thoughts lift me
like a bad spirit,
feet hanging,
eyes bulging,
supersonic scream
shriveling apples
from the branch,
draining color from the
cornflower sky, leaving
a stretch of steel,
a surgical table,
a bad omen -
I need to ask
questions
that smolder,
I need to howl,
toss you in the river,
pat you dry,
hold you close
and kiss your forehead
like I would a child,
whisper Come Back,
I Loved You,
and Why.
Your last moments
taunt me, twist soft,
unprotected places,
make me feel
I might suddenly,
violently, unwind.
*
I can
feel you here
with me.
Tell me
your demons
by name
let me shake
a broom at them,
a fist,
shake from you
the grim ending,
shake from me
the thoughts
I’m left with,
your face twisted
with suffering
I can’t
understand.
Come closer, listen.
Please, just
wait.
In the past ten years
when I thought of joy
it was you I recalled
ankles touching,
green stone,
black bikini -
and now when
I think of you
I’m scared.
*
There is
a terrible
silence,
before the levee breaks,
before the body
hits the ground,
before the waters
drown the path,
flood
the forest,
homes,
and cities,
the beds
we no longer
share.
Grief flows
downstream,
the direction
of shattered
hearts, each surge
of sorrow
the language
of a hand
that reaches
for what it can
no longer
hold,
each salted
drop filling
unbearable holes
with cold lakes
reflecting mountains
capped with snow.
We didn’t know
what you couldn’t
tell us,
we didn’t know
and now we
collect memories
like stones,
the sky
blooming
blue as the chicory
that lines the path,
sneakers on pavement
palms wet
with tears -
that’s just it, friend,
I love you
like you’re still
here.
*
What
I’ve learned
from speaking
to the dead,
from speaking
to you,
is that grief
assures us
that we loved
and it’s that necessity,
to love, then,
to weep,
that makes less
the depths
of grief.
*
Memories piled
like river stone, you -
sun in your hair,
me - collecting,
refusing to forget
our joys.