Rituals of Friends

This poem appears in my book, Blown into Now: Poems for a Journey, and was first published in PASSAGER JOURNAL

“I try each day,” he whispers,

“to find color and light

in the world again.

For if I could unblind,

my son is not gone.”

“I wear Suzanne’s clothes,”

she explains slowly.

“In her gloves, I feel her,

and I talk to her children

every week, and I talk

to her grandchildren.”

He holds my arm.

“I have pictures of Phoebe,”

he says, “beside candles,

maybe fifty. Sometimes

I light all of them.”

Still he holds my arm.

“When I meet someone

I describe Phoebe first,

and I have a place where I watch

for her, a sacred tree hidden

among pine and manzanita.”

They turn toward me

and I want to tell them

I keep his unwashed shirt.

Alone, I breathe cotton

and coils of memory.