One Year

Like when you crick your neck in the wrong way
and it feels like something not hurt
but jarred.
That's how inexpicable it is to say
one year.
It's nothing like hard.
That's a syllable and it's said by
absolutely everyone.
When I feel miserable and guilty
for feeling miserable
I feel these hundreds of days
have been treading-time, getting used to it.
Un-training my hand to grab you.
De-fathoming my mind, un-synching
the plans.
Mother, bride, grandma, grey in a rocking chair.
Brushing my hair, fixing the clasp on my first bra, wiping my nervous tears.
Memories, hopes.
I wish I could have had both.
You are now This Someone to everyone and
they think they own you because
you left so suddenly; but you only
belong to me.
One year and I do know how many days
but it feels too many to say out loud.
Such a wisp of a life I've been living since
and lying about it all the time. Because
I've been proud and embarrassed.
A thrown away piece of paper with
nothing of note written on it.
An afterbirth of a ghost.
Regrets, what I've wished for the most?
Had I stayed, stroked your
face, scattered your ashes over the coast,
into the wind, away into salt spray,
I might feel better.
I might feel okay.
But you're ether. And I can't feel you either.
Not in a dog's bark, not a goosebump or a blossom-bloom
I don't believe you've been in this room.
You're pure absence. And since
you went, it's a phony world
I walk in. Seaside town with shutters down,
no games today.
No ferris wheel, no waltzers.
No spinning around for fun.
From where I came from to here,
just one year. A crick in the neck;
jarring. Plains and beaches and
farms and my arms can't
hold you.




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