December 28, 2022The Little I Remember
for Robert Herman
Twice a year if sleep eludes, I type your name
into the internet, add “obit,” assuming the dark locus
consumed you. On your Facebook page
a girlfriend had posted pictures of your last days
together, waist-deep in the Adriatic,
arm in arm at an exhibit of your photos.
The scar above your wincing smile
held the same power it had 40 years ago,
when I’d board a bus for a two-hour trip
to your gray-edged room in the Lower East Side.
I brought offerings: perfect avocados,
tickets to plays I couldn’t afford,
my young body to shine beneath your window’s
pleat of moon. I tried to be enough.
Years later, after I had married, I wheeled my baby
past a coffee shop, where I spotted
you, huddled at a table for one, eyes locked
on an invisible enemy. My grief sat heavy. Relief, too,
as I peered into the pink carnation
of my daughter’s face, grateful
you weren’t her father.
Oh, Robert. You had asked me
How do you enjoy life? I wanted to believe
you had found the answer,
but you scribbled the same question
on a note right before
you jumped.
from #78 – Poetry Prize