When may I?

Not now under the
lampscope in my
G.I. gear—little doughboy
to hashtagged Iraqi vet.

Not now with my
hand tentatively against
your sickly body.

                               "Two weeks.
We're sorry."

Not now as the pallbearer,
my clutch like vacuum-sealed
lips parted for
you.

Held back by what is left of your
afterlife pride.

Not now as I watch a hurricane
gradually run aground,
wondering if the waves will crash and
if the sea will come inland,
flood your grave
in wet kisses.

If only it could stop howling for five seconds,
just to hear me.