In a random obituary, I hear of your death. No more rain; the balcony is still wet. You have been dead for eight months. A deep river flows between the futons laid out side by side. You were always late. Red and gold fish hide under a rock. Always late, and always your sleeves carefully folded. A cat knows the sunny spot. Flash lilies stick their heads out of the barrier net. I haven’t forgiven you for showing up with a comic book on that day. Bright leaves don’t see me in the interior darkness. A downstairs neighbor talks to me for the first time. I try, but I cannot remember much else about you. The backdoor is ajar; two mosquitoes made it in.
When you kiss me, the distance peels
her fingers from the south,
shoves hemispheres into my mouth.
Espresso cups clicking into their saucers,
Sudden outbursts of laughter,
And the background hum of Brazilian bees socializing.
She asked me, “do you like Miss Donne?
You’re both girls. But my dad says that’s okay.”