Anticipated Grief

Most nights I foresee the inevitable

and I press my hands together

so hard that my fingertips become

numb

I stare at the ceiling

and hope something is there

deciphering my pleas

through croaked murmurs

I document moments unforgettable

just to be sure they stay that way

stories of your childhood

funny bits

and the tablature

so even if I can't hear the music

I’ll be sure to read it

knowing it existed once

Through my pleads

and swollen ducts

I selfishly ask for immortality

that the choice is given to me

and I decide where it lands

I will protect your things;

the dusty safari hat

the carved checker pieces

the little engine that could

the train whistle

the twine

the birthday cards

The way I do not enjoy the beach

the gaping vastness of unknown

reaching for the landscape and

getting a fisted clump of air;

nothingness,

is how I worry the end will be

that it will not be poised over me

like the mountains are

but will push me out to sea

to fend for myself

where the direction to peace is unrevealing

and also to you

So, after the time has come

and left

and just before the land transforms

I’ll hang birdhouses

when the sticky warmth kisses my nose

in hopes that a cardinal will sing

and in the off-season

the blinds will be drawn

as not to reflect the bitter reality that you’re 

gone.