A Glass of Zin It was three days after your death, and I knew what that meant. We buried you yesterday. You hate spending your nights alone. I passed the time tonight by visiting Our friend, you still remember him I’m sure. Owns the bar on Court Street. No hair. His eyes Squeeze out of his sockets when he’s excited But otherwise they disappear beneath The bags of his lids. No hair. That reminds me of you. So I sat at the bar, and our friend shuffled Towards me. “Darker than usual in here,” I said. “Not really. Maybe it’s just you,” He replied. “Maybe.” The air. You used to insist that A bar wasn’t a bar without the smoke And I smoke and you never did and. And I think I like it better without the smoke Now. For a while I don’t think of the craving, the Sickness, so perhaps I should live out my years Behind bars. Inside bars. The waitress—what is her name?— Stood beside me and leaned across to our friend, Who squinted at her and waited. “Glass of zin,” she said. Our friend disappeared into the darkness, rummaging through The shelves like a librarian. He returned with A bottle of white zinfandel and a shapely wine glass That reminded me of you. When the bottle was uncorked He clutched the bottle by the throat, Tilted it until the slimy pale liquid rushed To the lip, and paused. After a bit, the waitress—I don’t remember her name!— Lifted the empty glass to the ceiling, peering into Its crystal air. She shrugged. She wandered away. It’s been three days. I ordered A glass of zin. What is Enough It was two days after your death, And I wondered about the steps of grief. I am not following them. They are to me Like the MC Escher drawing. The Steps churn and turn, never-ending, a vortex. Everyone said it was a nice funeral. I ordered Your favorite flowers but I must have Forgotten a few—there were so many colors, So much variety, yet they didn’t remind me of you. I don’t know what was said at the funeral. I watched the flowers and tried to recall The times, so many, that you and I stood in a field With the warm spring wind and the calm Spring blooms. You named the flowers. My sister said a few words. A few. Not enough. Beside you I remained as long as I could And it was a lazy Saturday morning again, When I got up early to watch you sleep. I cannot name the flowers. There were hundreds. Red and yellow and purple— The purples must have been violets, maybe Irises, maybe orchids—but they were not enough. There are not enough stages of grief. In the past Week, as the end approached, strangers Pressed copies of soft books into my hands, Saying, “This helped me get through it,” Implying that one stage fits all. It is not enough, is it? I am reading a book now and it urges me to Give in for a while, let it go, give in and let go As if grief were Excalibur. I cannot make sense of it. I wonder if you liked your funeral. I am simply not a person for flowers. You were. Your garden, behind the house, with its Paths leading to more paths, entwining and never-ending, Will soon die because I am not enough. Things It was the day after your death, With the sun creeping across the wood floors As imperceptibly as breath on a summer’s day. I listened to music, sat in your chair, Rummaged through the shoe box in which you Kept all the things that had no normal place. I don’t know why you wanted to save these items. I don’t know the relevance they might have had. A shoe-string, dear? Bright red. Short It cannot be for an adult’s shoe. A program for a play I did not recall seeing. The paper is yellow and brittle. A picture frame without a photograph. The dirty glass held my reflection. The sun closed in on the coffee table, an advancing Army of dull heat. I could see the dust in the air Swirling like anger, and it made me angry, All these things I didn’t understand, these remnants Of a life that was my life and not my life all the same. A marble. A rip of cloth. The arm of a doll. I got up and placed the box on the table as the Sun finally closed in for the kill. It struck at the marble And at the framed glass, was repelled. The sun Shattered into prisms that splattered against the wall, The furniture, the ceiling. I got up to ask you about these Things, forgetting that you could not answer. But witnessing the war the sun had lost, I received the answer anyway. Asking is an insult. Squeeze It is the day of your death, And you don’t know it. You feel it, Though, you sense it the way our cat Predicts the weather. It is instinctual. For the first time in weeks your hand is Squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, clutching my own hand which is unable to squeeze back For fear of giving you enough peace to let go. You must hate me for that. I don’t blame you. We worked so long for this moment and everything Is ready except me. The nurse eases everyone from the Room, ushering them into the hall where I once watched You falling, gasping, crying, fitful with rage, clumps of hair Clutched in your fists. There are sobs. There are murmurs. Your face sags and is not the face I will remember, perhaps, but It is still your face and I lean forward, lean into your scent that is not Your true scent, and I touch my lips to your lips, which feel dry and hot. The squeeze, the opposite of birth, the push, the touch, a last touch, your last Sensation, this squeeze with my hand it must be for release, it must be to release Because it happens instinctually and then you are gone. You are gone. Flow It is a year before your death, But neither of us knows it. You move beneath me like water And I possess the flow of your body, letting it pass Through my fingertips, pressing my chest against the Rolling stream of your back, hips, stomach, breasts, The legs that rise and fall like the tide, the mouth Like a whirlpool, pulling me in, reaching always for Something that is not mortal and is not mine to give. We are night. Glistening sweat Stars us. The night sky reflects on your water body. Your hand moves into my hair and tugs playfully, daringly. I don’t know why such small movements become important But it excites me, just as you begin to boil when I Bite, too hard, the slender canal of your neck. These things That lovers do, they can’t be explained. They are mysterious creatures That push against their surroundings, the slightest movement Causing currents, ripples, tsunamis, hurricanes. These excitements Thrive in the cryptic depths of the ocean and when they come To the surface it is always a surprise. A revelation. And then we are water. We merge and surge. We are the night seas, furious, relentless, beating against the air And ripping into the shores of undiscovered countries. And then we are steam, burning away in a hot rising sun. Our star sweat dries. Our excitements return to the depths. What remains is the sound of breath, the quiet rhythm of Life above sea level, and your breath is straining, even now, Is laced with the last, greatest secret. As we drift off to sleep, Body to body, the sun rises and you mention the appointment Next week. I close my arms around you and begin to know.