Asked to list 10 things I’ve lost, I faltered.
A blue feather, favorite glove, newly cut
keys. Love and flexibility. You

asked me once if you had death inside
you and I lied. After the wake, I waded
through tall grasses—skin electric.

I felt guilty for happiness, that I was
able to undertake simple pleasures
like putting my face in the lilacs or

breathing in earth, after rain. I
listened to your last voice message
and when I looked on the screen

there were violets. I couldn’t list
10 things. Inside me, a sonata.
Outside, a day moon.