Her

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