On His Birthday

There is the sort of pain
which makes everything sharper,
clearer,
more focused.
And then there is this:
blurred lines, dulled senses,
waiting for you to whisper when you never will again,
seeing a shadow and waiting for the toes on your feet to appear and announce your body,
waiting for you to come home when your side of the bed is empty,
to hold me in my sleep,
to tell me you love me in real time
and not in dreams or memories
which are all I have left now.

First...

First, the sleep goes. It abandons you to
heartsickness that has no stint.
And all becomes blurry and the days run
together and there are echoes of echoes of echoes
of the voice silenced, the footfalls never to be
heard again; the face already altered
by loss and memory and you wonder:
Is that how he really looked? Was that really his
voice? Was that really the sound of his step
in the hall? Did he really always laugh at that joke?
And then, your hair falls out in great clumps,
and you hardly miss it at all,
there is only shock of losing it. And you think:
Take it. There’s nothing left anyway, so I will not miss this.
And well-meaning friends who quote such cliches
as “Time heals all wounds” will reassure you that
it will grow back again.

The ghost of your voice,
remembered expressions pieced
from flawed memory.

Grief swallows me whole;
Omar Khayyam would want
me to sing, drink, dance.

The water is cloudy
and the petals edged with black—
heads bow on soft stems.

Epiphanies live
in Silence and sudden bursts
of obvious Truth.

A Reflection upon Visiting a Dear, Dear Friend

True friends share silence
and talk with equal pleasure.
That is what we have.