Spring rolled over once again – but you did not
follow. A wild torrent howled me back,
pitched me grief-mad into that never …
but you could not turn your head that night.
Even in oblivion no chance for cold hand-holding.
Your eyes closed among bones. I turn,
and you keep coming back. Standing
on the side porch waving goodbye,
saying to her I will never see them again
(it wouldn’t have been hard to make that a lie.)
We went on with our busyness, puzzled
by her retelling, and so the truth tumbled down
without being heard, falling on cut-back roses,
hydrangea and rue. We played you the bagpipes,
gun-saluted you into the earth – your night moans
rattling guns which never quieted. Our dark visions
a melting snow, tunneling into frozen crevices,
burying seed and carcass alike.