Shell

If I stoop to gather up Shell,
she will sit like Tinkerbell
in my hand.

Sky cries for her
on Tuesdays

I think its easier
to grieve on a regular basis
she says

Saves those
moments of
stagger step
oh my God realizations

which halt me
midway through a sentence

When we talk of Shell
the air softens
and sound
deadens

Life is muted beneath
the Grey outstretched membranous
wings of deaths hover

as if the rest of the Universe
can afford this small allowance

a tithe of respect

We visit infrequently together now

Sky braves Shells quiet dignified resolve
more readily than I

I want to be
untouched

No funeral

Shell says
her voice
the barest hint of breeze
across the tops of
thin green reeds

Her words
barely cause a ripple

yet

her dying

pushes out
in a wave

to lap upon us.

Sigh

We will say
we slept through October
curled around the hard nut
of how-it-is.

But that is not the truth of it
it does not explain
sleepless anxieties
the balled fists
and nail marks in palms.

It does not explain
extended silence
how the tick of the clock
can boom and thunder
waves of nothing to say
slamming against us

Your hands are melded to my spine
I fused our skin
so blood
you spill
each day
for her
now flows
through me

a constant pulse

a ragged beat


I have only my self to blame

so I blame you

We
who cannot be split asunder

dividing
cells cloning and
spreading

A virus
polluting each breath
till the rank
scent engulfs and consumes

Truth is a lie
carefully gift wrapped
in subjectivity

Yours or mine
both need a ribbon
to make it prettier.