National Poetry Month 2021

I will die on a Sunday at 11 o’clock in Milos while preparing a late breakfast. 

I will be old, almost blind, 

hanging on to the last bit of sunshine

as the day

turns to night.

I will live happily in flux, until that fated day in Milos.

I will carry my burdens as artillery, not luggage.

My husband would be gone by this time, and though

I often felt lonely, and carried on nonsensical fleeting romances, nothing

will ever be quite the same if his animated body isn’t next to mine. 

I will have spent my days remembering his hands,

cooking his favorite meals, 

and running my own hands all over my body,

convincing myself it is him, loving me like he did. 

I will lock my doors, because trust never really did become

an antidote. 

I will carry pieces of his hair 

cut from his crown 

braided into an anklet;
refurbished each time

it decides to rupture.

I will drink my coffee black

and use food as fuel.

I will write poems and paint pictures in his repute.

I will soak my feet in warm bluegreen waters and 

remember the many times he took each of my toes in his mouth. 

I will smile and cry in tandem. 

I will nap and feel his warmth next to me.

I often dream of him, both of us young and in love with the way the other moves through their life.

I miss his scent most of all.

The salt of his neck and the bristles of his kiss.

The hands squeezing the softness of my frame.

I will die on a Sunday at 11 o’clock in Milos while preparing a late breakfast. 

I will be old, almost blind, 

hanging on to the last bit of sunshine

as the day

turns to night.