Last Sunday I went to a funeral

Last Sunday I went to a funeral.
Q had died in her chair,
looking out her window.
Father Keith gave the eulogy.
He said, "I knew her for many years. She loved to sit
by that window, waiting
for the day to pass.
He paused, then said, "It is with amazing grace
that we may last the length of days.
For this we should give thanks."

Does he know
the insufferable ways in which days
go on and on?

I will give no thanks
to the length of days
I endured.

I will lay face down
deep in dirt and weep
for the 13 Sundays that have passed
without me.

There is a woman waiting.
There is a woman wanting.
She died with that waiting.

if you must be silent

Love, do not call to me.
Do not say to me the feelings that vex your heart at night
when you miss me most
half asleep and half drunk,
only when light breaks make silence your armor,
and sentiments harden like laid bricks baked in the sun.

If you must be silent, be silent
all the days.
Be more silent than night.
More than a muted cry.
Aimless wandering.
Hurt gone numb.

Love, if you must
be silent.

I imagine telling you

"The house was quiet and the world was calm."
The poem reads.
I read and think, it is.

---

Tonight I wear your bangles to bed.
I wanted to glue them on the wall, make roses or bubbles
and watch them float but instead
I put them on and stretch my arms, feel lightness in their soft tinkling, as if
sounds can conjure up love as it
fills up the space next to me.
I imagine you
tied my hands to your hands,
like the book I'd torn apart
then bound the pages again,
and put them all in a box
hurting.

I imagine telling you about Luis Rivera.
I imagine saying, I went on a date with Luis Rivera,
we hung out in his apartment, ate tacos, and listened to death metal music.

I imagine telling you, days later, I went on another date with Luis Rivera. This time we drank
shots of tequila, I stuff my hands inside his back pockets while he slid his hands up my legs.
His hands were soft.

I imagine telling you, weeks later, that for such soft hands Luis Rivera could really play the guitar.

I imagine telling you, months later, that we went on walks through the woods, it's fall here
and the trees are
tremoring.
We sat in coffee shops on Sunday mornings.
I showed him how to roll his undershirts to save space
while he told me about his anxieties and the medications he's tried,
their side effects, why it takes him so long to cum, and his worries
about being fat.

I imagine telling you, I have not heard him sing until now. He's good.
I imagine telling you, Luis Rivera is good.
And if I am lucky, I imagine I would also tell you,
I have learned to love Luis Rivera.

I imagine telling Luis Rivera about you.
I imagine saying, I left him my heart--he doesn't want it
because he doesn't know what to do with it. I left it there for him
on the hills of Oakland,
under the brush of an unmarked bush.
I haven't been back to get it.

I haven't imagined what Luis Rivera would say.