I'm at work, still annoyed at my alarm.
It goes off as the sun is setting and I get up, brush my teeth,
and go in for the overnight shift. I choke down a Big AZ burger,
eat it like it will be my last. Slow. Like a rain is coming,
even though there is no circumstance under which
you are not choking one of those down.
Full and empty, I go back to the text message,
read it and re-read and re-live the last time I was whole,
before the love of "is" became the memory of "was".
I erase the thread, and then the number, just as they asked me to,
and head to the stockroom, with a scanning gun.
The box of candy above my heads weighs 600 pounds,
teeters on the edge of the shelf, has been for 3 days.
The last text I received, that hasn't been dead and gone
from the graveyard in all of our pockets,
is from 5 days ago. "I love you."
someone needs to care for the dogs.
Someone needs to get everyone lunch and
someone has a gig several towns over and
over paperwork or emails with
lots of someones, in fact,
and all over you, imagine -
the punchline to a joke you'll never tell again.
Your father will never be the same
and it may be for worse or better
because now there is after and there is before.
Everyone will forgive everyone for this,
but you? You're not here to forgive.
There is anger. And there's no one to talk about it with.
There is a therapist, she even has a name, and probably
a 2-car garage and a real nice SUV and all,
from the question of "how come I made it
and they didn't?" No one else gets paid from not knowing the answer
but pushing us to the questions.
It is a day. The sun rises, and sets, and in between,
Truth is, I've worn lots of April 19ths
and shed lots of April 20ths.
The first April 19th after her was Junae.
She looked perfect in the casket,
too perfect in the casket.
The second April 19th after her,
my grandmother never got to see my acceptance letters.
Her smile was a light out of the cave.
There is still mud under my fingernails.
The third April 19th after her,
that is sweet to someone, but not me.
Still, I must eat. I have to stay
because so many people around me
if I was gone. And they wouldn't make it.
The first April 19th after them
was a workday. I was on Zoom,
teaching about insurrections,
I have been trying to stay awake ever since.
The first April 19th after you
was a phonecall. I can count the number of people
I answer the phone for with no hesitation on one hand.
A month later, she drank until I had another finger.
The second April 19th after you
Your daughter has your sense of humor
and calls her family during the holidays.
Your wife is a star, bright and warm and holy and
I will wake up ahead of my alarm again
and that's the joke, you know.
The stars twinkle on the still ocean until it kisses the sky blue
in thank you. The waves flirt with the shore
with arms wide and waiting forever and when she finally crashes,
like magic, poof. No more shore.
It's really quite hilarious.