the ritual of mourning is meant to ferry our dead across waiting places and weighing places. we meet it
with the energy of our spirit - the only part that will reach. i would lie if i said i didn’t make altars. your
pictures are everywhere. i love you. you are not gone. i love you. the distance between us is as thin as
atoms, as the skin that holds the newly forming child. i love you. i call your memory into being.
we made each other - in that brief meeting across time. two lives, spooling and unspooling, molecules
they ripple out and out and out.
there are things you could name to bless you
in between breath and the zap of the streetlight
but within lay the limits of hope or hand, and so
the best way forward is to adjust the curve of your spine
against your lover’s back.
skin to muscle to bone.
summer air tickles the white linen drapes.
sound of birds, river and jackhammers
drift up from the street.
we are the same, aren’t we?
she asked, instead of goodbye.
we are made of the same elementary particles,
your breath against my ear thrills me.
dawn falls on fastened eyelids, pulsing joy.
a believer’s fear of true warmth,
the rapture, or something slower.
you’ll wait, a whole lifetime,
to reach the promised land.
Hannah Coakley is a queer Zen farmer & nutritionist living in Fort Collins, CO. She loves to hike, meditate and listen close to the wisdom of her clients and her plants. She is quite new to the world of poetry. You can find her published in the Lavender Review, Rebelle Society and The Voices Project. You can find her online at pandowellness.org.