Water

 

I will not write another poem
about your body. How we found it.
How it is not your body anymore
and has disappeared 
into new purpose.

There is sorrow, yes.
Sometimes I can’t breathe for it.
Sometimes it folds up easy;
waits until I am ready
to consider its weight.
I am often ready these days.

In death, you have become
the simplest version of yourself.
I catch myself sorting memories,
piecing together your life in a way
that adds up to your end.
In truth, I did not know you well.
But we bruised in the same places.
I saw myself in your stories and knew
we were not alone. I loved you once.

Now, when the world narrows
to the most simple beauties:
When I am dancing in Berlin,
or hiking the Grand Canyon,
or listening to a song we both once loved,

I speak your name out loud.
And in that way you are still here.
Taking in the world for all the good
it has left to offer you,
clasping the day with broken fingers.
For a moment, you are with me,
with all of us, back with the world 
you left. Our lives still tumbling forward,
drenched in you, chanting your name.