Careful

Be careful what . . .

If only she were dying
so life would glitter,
so minutia would drift
away with no remorse.

Love would sing in
her veins, without restraint.
She would gather all the
flowers, save one. She
would spill her affection

tenacious as daffodil fronds.
If only the end of her life
slid by in her rear view
mirror, if only this breath

was most treasured. On her
table; lip gloss, nail clipper, text
books, calendar, the Gunniwolf, spent
Beanpod candle.

Missing; your lips,
tender words.

Also a FinePix camera, two
check books, three memory sticks, one
unicorn bookmark, Virgil Cain’s
card, Contemporary American Poets,
Energizer 9 volt.

Better buried. There are things to
ignore. Quiet days. Endless night.
The pink tabs on the pages
of The Little Prince, a bruise that
quickens; dark shadows

under the eye, cornsilk discharge from
her breast, a lost lens cap. We know. We
know before knowing what we
know. Love and loss. Known.