Wishes

The night we died
IwishIcouldsay we did something great
(lighting flames inside conch shells while walking down the beach
would have been nice)
But I won’t. We spoke whispers
Whenshewanted words without voice, the lovers’ talk,

And instead I shifted down, furrowing brows, slipping out of space to
Talk. Profane the silence. Cripple the natural rhythm with realized
Thought, so very unBuddhist-like, and try to make the pieces fit.

With her, they rarely did. Puzzles from many places,
With all the important stuff collected
Inoneplace she’d make it a broken story.

The night we
Snuffed
Out
IwishIcouldsay we stared into the abyss just to spite
It
(And made wishing-wells of all the little feathers that came out)
But I can’t. We stacked sticks–lightwood, the types she hates–all along the woodsheds
Replaced kindling with wood figurines,
Burned our legacy to the pit-bottom and watched as it swept itself out
Onthebreath of some dead man’s teachings.

And a cosmic shhh. The abyss sleeps.

The night we split like chopsticks,
IwishIcouldsay the dream didn’t lie,
(and we talked on equal footing, like we used to, a long time ago)

And I will. Apple against her teeth, breathing against red fruitskin,
She spoke of a better place–where we were–while
I sang, "stars are just the holes to heaven."
She sat mostly shadowed in sweetsmelling juniper, a conifer,
An evergreen,

I think I know. IthinkIknow where we were.

A house in Smalltown Missouri, second cousins’ place, but no corn grew.
No bugs flew.

IwishIcouldsay nothing. And mean it.