2016: a burial

january:
the skytrain paused, mid-air
we hovered above burnaby
glittering
i remember: the hair twist, the mirror,
abandon & how the right song could
summon it from him,
&, o, the minutes before
the homeward bus
how the last of the best
of us
could be pressed between them

february:
three times, now, i have returned
to the bottomless mulligan
of family

my pride, an upheaval
alongside the winter roots
that blocked the garden
from the coming light

a backspace of id
and a healing over
of years, of haze,
of old growth

march:
the slow animal will
reach furthest
once a year, this lessens
the ratio of defeat

the open door became the village,
a finding of my people
somewhere, etta james was singing

april:
do you ever feel like the honeycomb
whose keepers only come once?
the world sidelongs your life
long enough to roll its eyes
& sigh in wonder
at the hum of you,
then departs.

lindy, this was the last time
i broke bread with you,
the last time i felt the settled glow
of my own body around my bones.

may:

june:

july:

august:

september:

october:

november:

they don’t teach us
how to write about illness

so i must now guess.

december:
it takes a lot to have a body

it takes a lot to be the lighthouse
to eye the hurricane
and outwards the light

it takes a lot to walk straight
when the fog falls

in cities that ask for proof of all wounds
it takes a lot to hurt invisibly

it takes a lot to write a eulogy
and turn it into a prayer.

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