Two Weeks

Grief is the worst type of heartbreak--
there is no promise of spring,
just leaves crumbled into dust.

And the days move ever forward.
And I feel left behind.
And I am looking for you,

listening for your voice--
but you are dust.
Death is the ultimate promise.

It is the worst type of promise.

May 8

There are not enough artifacts
nor trinkets
nor letters written
nor rough maps drawn

blue ink
cursive
a "T" forgotten,
uncrossed

There is not enough time
hands ticking
coming closer together
three or four clocks, at least,
I count
while sitting
where you last rested

Somewhere, I will find
your memory boxes,
your address books,
your yellow legal pads

Somewhere, I will find
your bookmarked Bibles
with tear-stained pages,
your 91st Psalm

But today, nothing I will find
will be enough
I am selfish
I want soft arms
I want more than
recordings
to save and replay...
"He is risen--he is risen indeed!"

I want your songs
your hums
your interruptions
your "not only that"s

I knew this day would come
but seeing you
in robin's egg blue
head tilted
as if napping
I was not ready
I guess we never are

Whose stories
will ring in my ears
now?

Whose loud, persistent voice?

All the time in the world
still wouldn't be enough
with you--

big brown eyes
now closed

I can ask why you left
and if you'll be back
but these questions
are for children

I am so small
facing vast darkness
"But the light returns,"
I can hear you say
"Everything will be okay
I promise"

Power

My vote
is a Molotov cocktail
thrown at your sneering,
sweaty face.
How dare you;
like you are entitled
to my trust.
This flaming liquid,
these glass knives
jab your throat.
They are all
you are entitled to,
motherfucker.
Yell then, won't you.
Maybe someone
will cover your mouth,
too,
when you scream.