Ten Years After Your Death

by Patricia Zylius

Two bees disappear into a magnolia blossom
as the cello reaches its highest note.
I still see your face as you listened,
eyes closed, brow furrowing at the radiant
ache. Rusting shovel in a bed of bolting lettuce.
Old bicycle wheel hung with dust
high in the garage rafters.
Why do I keep doing it — opening
the painted box to look at that teaspoon
of ash, the bits of bone? Shift
of a log in the woodstove.
Click of a door latch.
A box of your letters. The paper exhales
old words. How long
will you go on speaking?

— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 2