Like flesh missing from my bones, your absence screams at me
dry days fold into empty nights that even sleep refuses to visit
the warm of your breath starkly unavailable
life it seems left with you
the heart wants what the heart wants
it cut its self out
what use has it of these dry bones
and this longing disposition
seeking only your return
one dropless beat at a time
I wait for the get down
when your eyes breath life back into mine
and brings the flesh back to these bones

in black sky above us, the shreiks
of the shells cut the air, sharp, until
the dreaded booms which tell us
how close

how close the rounds landed
to our trench, where we hunker, drenched
in dreck, mud and blood, an unwilling
audience to this martial symphony

screams stream skyward
and comingle with the next volley,
a cacophonous courtship of vibrations,
invisible, but we know it's there

a miserable marriage of metal
and flesh--monkeys made into men
who ****** their own; who are determined
to sing these sour songs

when the lobbies stop, the only sounds
are the winds, the ones which will gently carry
the sounds of men moaning, crying,
praying for silence

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

I put blinders on my heart

to keep from bleeding out my mouth

all over the shoes of those too mummified to

feel the souls of their own feet anymore

I stand before the grey flowing river, listless hands clutched to my chest
Tracing the pattern of my silent heart
There are no reflections here

The wind mourns in loud sighs, whipping the gauze of my white dress around my ankles
It yanks my hair, the willow cries its branches bare

I barely flinch at the sudden ice of his touch
His arms tightly squeeze mine, his hands suffocating my heart
A pressure so familiar now, I melt to him
I am so tired now-

He is shaking me
Lovely little one, Death whispers through my ears
You have to see the world beyond your eyelashes

His fingers twitch and my heart electrifies
My world convulsing with color
I don't want to go I sob
I want to stay with you
But to no avail
He walks away, never looking for me over his shoulder

And my body shudders for air

I watch my eyelashes flutter in my vision and remind myself
How to breathe
Yet it does not take away the fear

For what if I open my eyes and there is nothing else there?
For what if there is no world anymore beyond the river, the willow and the boy I call death?

I have to try I decide
A sharp sliver of light cuts through my vision
And I remember

*I really am alive