each time
someone
dies,
a leaf falls
from a
magnificent
tree in
paradise,
and of the
righteous,
"noor"
remains,
holy light
  maybe-  
matter
takes its
form
in the
silent bare
skies
scarped
by sun
maybe-
happiness
too first
agreed upon
in heaven,
  before it
tumbles
down here
maybe-
wherefore
its always
late,
unlike
sadness,
that we
fashion
and wear-
that comes
so often,
so easy.

I love
how certain
things in
my home
pull me
inward
candles
burn
unevenly,
like my
moods,
objects
talk here
hey,
remember
that night?
my
bear-skinned
pillows
have taken
the thud
of chameleonic
moods
anger,
joy,
sadness,
guilt
each mind
arriving
with its
own weather-
still things
here
remind me
of my fate
living in
a place
that keeps
returning
to love.

i see nature
as an
old bride,
adorned by
what
wounds us
she does
not mourn
cyclic
  departures.

i fear
that folded
slip with my
father’s stages
chronicled
in fading
script and
quiet list
of my
mother’s
final
condiments,
whatever
might make
death taste
less bitter
i don’t
want grief
to tear
anything
our parting
should be
like clouds
drifting in
shear
soft and
undramatic.

In my
deepest
slumber
i do
   prohibited
things
crawl
through
the soft
dark,
a thud
inside
your
organs
they
  begin to
squirm
i leave
no
language
just
presence
upon
awakening
a twitch
in the
thigh,
salt
on the
tongue,
heat
trapped
between
joints
somewhere,
you shift.
somewhere,
i remain.

No one
drowns
in their
own
waters.
Fish
don’t.
How
could
you?

Its skin streaked
with rain and soil,
bows beneath
just a few drops
of water
grateful for even
that small sip.
Its stem,
a little bent,
its face
still golden.
And in that
gesture,
I saw the
grace of
needing little
   but receiving fully.