There will now always be
a gnarl in your shoulder
blade—the left side, the one
a gnarl in your shoulder
blade—the left side, the one
that will twitch whenever
the phone rings. You will
forget him in your prayers
but he will ripen into your dreams,
gently defiant, remorseless
as a nightshirt about to be stashed
in the cabinet under the sink
where you collect your rags.
There, on the kitchen table,
the laptop on which he composed
his suicide note turns into a mirror
which reflects you both
at that age at which neither
one of you could manage
a grimace or a smile.
His left ear grows a hole
that is shedding its
dark music. And on his lips
you will read the words of a song
in which every other line rhymes
with cover or flinch.
