On the 5th anniversary of his death

Dear husband,

I wonder now what did I mean

standing before the judge those years ago

when it was my turn

to say, I do. 


Still young but slightly broken,

we two, this our third 

October 2, 1982

or fourth time 

trying.

Thanks for those rainbows 

you carry 

down the aisle

tho I subdued in my expression,

of the big promise

  until death.


No one knows the mountain who has not

slept on it.  I like to say.

Perception remains of that scent

on your cheeks that even now

impress me like 


a desert star.

Facing it

I look at it now 

and then

     with haste,

his remaking--

butterfly 

back to worm 

to zygote and

pre-zygote.

I re-hear death.
Its rattlings.

My cold white sorrow.

I bring it all back 

for another look.

To be certain of his mighty 

     gone-ness.

It is good to do it--
to turn and look 

into that hole
and really face it.

Even momentarily.

After a call from an old beau

 I feel you on my tongue, sweet baby, 

 sweet sugar baby.

That postcard dated long ago. 

It brings back and makes me cry

his cool back seat,  spilled rum and coke,

his tongue's range of tricks 

On the phone, he talks and talks. 

I can tell he wants to meet. 

But he talks and talks--it's so weary, 

all those words--none make me teary 

and that precocious tongue now 

keeps its place in mundane things.