Two beads in my pocket, smooth as rain,
the color of amber woven into dusk.
A chapter, faxed and gray, folded in half,
with the edges of the pages dog eared, soft.
All my blood, save one drop. All my skin,
save one prick. Room after room we’ve
never wandered together in. A certificate
for sweetness, unspent. A book, “The Gift,”
only partially read. Old conversations
winging across vast skies in my head.
And this ache, sharp as snow on bare knees.
I think I should not be permitted to think.
Better to move through the stations of Friday,
January 15, and clear the dried plates
from the sink. Suppose instead of writing a poem
about what is and what is not, I choose to write
a check to the San Miguel Power Company
so they choose to keep my kitchen warm.
But the poem wins. Again. It has not
failed because it has not produced love.
Out the window, the snow does not apologize
for being cold. The dishes can wait, will wait.
And the ache is an ache. I examine it, cradle it,
shelve it close because you are not here to hold.