After the spring her memory was stronger than ever
her smell
her hair on my pillow. the spattering
of freckles that gently decorated
her entire body
her kale- and- carrot stir fry,
the way the light in her
eyes could go
from easy to furious
in a moment
without warning.
The underhanded insults
The missing camera and bike
The constant self- lauding monologue
“I am god,” one of her poems proclaimed
her mouth, always wanting
her deep tenor voice full
to the brim, rich
unearthly beautiful, telling all
the pain inside her
Deep and gaping
raw and red
How to turn away from that voice?
The redwood forest spoke to her.
Her mother’s love
Was seared into the fiber of her being
It carried her through
Each coming day
I thought
Loving her enough could erase years
Of being without; give her what
her childhood lacked
She thought
She could play me like a violin.
I looked for simple answers
Where they would never exist
Sometimes
we must walk away
from something unfinished
without hope of reconciliation