Mother Corona
Almost forgot
your death date,
caught up, as one is wont,
with the day-
to-day. Went
to your grave to say
sorry you slipped
my mind. Slept
over you on cold
grass. Held
my breath like a child.
Until my lungs told
me the truth: against my will,
they filled.
/
Time fills
against my will,
the strongest feels
dulled by the lull
of the everyday:
fold laundry, rake leaves,
scrub tub, binge Beyoncé.
I heal by degrees,
though I’d rather live
in the throes
when I felt most alive.
Today, your ghost
went mute, and I forgot.
Then I remembered, and wrote
this forget-you-not.
/
Forget me not. How
can I ask that of you
when I don’t know who
or what or where
or whether you are. When
my son asked if you’re
lonely, I said no, but how can
I know whether the dead bother
with us. Still, it was the best
answer for a child. Some say
they keep watch, never rest
in peace. But I pray they
sleep and dream and wake.
Check in when they want.
Forgive our mistakes.
/
Worst mistake
when writing about you
is to forget why. I feel a fake,
making much ado
about how I say what I say
in these little songs: sounds,
rhymes. Child’s play,
this sonnet crown,
compared with the trick
you pulled: going
from sick to not-sick,
from here to who-knows-where.
Your death is a poem
I can’t write, its volta
your last breath.
/
In the poem I can’t write,
I see your last breath—
an exhale of light
in the shape of you. Macbeth:
Out, out, brief candle. I’ll accept
that, but not that your life
signified nothing. I slept
when you slept, didn’t leave.
Until I did. For coffee.
To be (there) or not to be.
Did you go then to spare me?
I didn’t want to miss your leave-
taking. I wanted to breathe in
your last breath and hold it within—
catch what killed you.
/
How I didn’t catch
what killed you,
I don’t know. My wish
to be sick too
strikes me now
as a kind
of sick kindness.
Even though I knew
the answer, I asked
can I give her one
of my lungs. Masked,
the doctor said no,
we’re way past
that point, there’s nothing to do
but help her pass through.
/
Forgive me not
for making much ado
about you. What
else am I to do
but sing songs
in the dark.
It isn’t wrong
to overwork
these sounds
or to believe
they bind
us. Maybe I received
them from you. I know
that I’m alive, and, in me, for now,
you.