You are gone, so it is
as if you are dead. No one
comprehends. They arrange for me the sundered
tops of blossoms in a jam jar by my bedside, yellow
as the crowns of blonde boys.
They bring lemon tarts and want to dance.
They are convinced, like a long illness or tyrant,
you have been vanquished.
My friends drink to my new freedom and good health.
But you are gone and I am not fine, having grown in grief
so thin I disappear
like a moon mid-summer, what’s left of me
a glossal hook, latched on air.about the author