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its like not even one year is over.
When I couldn’t find your photo
graph it was losing your skin
again. It was there, the

one with your teeth still white, you
laughing near the Charles. When
I had you, I didn’t look ahead.
Alive, I couldn’t imagine

you wouldn’t always take the
car, bus or train to do any
thing you could: make
me tea, stay with some cat

you always wanted more from
as you did me. If you have
a new world down there,
under the roots of trees you

probably have too many phone
calls still. One friend says a
lady bug means her mother is
near. Or when a doll falls

off a chair it’s her mama talking.
I believe in little I can’t see
or hold tho I have wondered
about words on a sheet or paper

the wind picks up and slams over
cars, as if that came from you.
I don’t know if it’s good not to
let the dead go, to imagine

they’ll be a sign when there never
has. You’ve never come back
except in dreams where when I
wake up and you’re still missing,
you’re the photograph I can’t stop
looking for.

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Topics

• Pithy Tales
• Accounts & Glimpses
• Verse
• On Writing