—SOMETHING IN THE ORANGE TELLS ME WE’RE NOT DONE

 

Untitled

 

You don’t know this, but I sang you an aria this morning while the moon broke through the sky with its crooked, blind eye, nothing in the world stirring but the sound of my voice bending the window pane back to breaking, remembering our last goodbye, while cradling your urn in the soft nook of my elbow where your head, your face, those lips and you, once laid, looking up with one last, innocent question.