Here, lilies grow above my head. I see

only frail stick-roots, the petals not strong

enough to reach down. Here, music isn’t free—

I sift through remembrance to hear your song.

They deal amnesia in doses and say

it hurts less. (They lie.) There is no relief

from memory. Like stains, they wash away

mourning, and too soon, I forget my grief.

The mind turns back- I know your voice. You speak

song. I hear you now, cave-halls echoing.

Your refrain weeps. (Nothing hurts less.) I’m weak

when you find me, hold me, say “we’re going”

and we creep-escape, silent as cavemice,

until you look back once and kill me twice.

Plaster Body at Pompeii

When I crawl into my unmade bed,

I fit into your space, the gap

in the ash, as if I can become 

the memory, the calcified mirage 

that is the vague shape of you.

We are all placeholders, and I know 

remembrance is not all clay, untouchable  

bones somewhere inside. In the pillowcase, 

in the plaster, the decades crumble, 

your smell fades. I think 

I would like to sleep

and dream.

​