I sense an interruption or some type of riot.
Where are you now?
I could sleep and never get up,
take a nap under a cherry blossom tree
here, the Brooklyn Botanical Garden.
Mother's Day, 2012.
The last time you visited me in NYC.
There are certain things I still can't throw away.
Your lavender bath and body lotion,
the Joan Rivers leopard print jacket,
your wallet with your photo ID and
Applebee's lunch card for after church.
I find you when I put on my turquoise bangle bracelet.
I find you when I sip my coffee in Queens.
I find you when I close my eyes, quiet hugs in Toms River.
Lows happened at night.
I open my mouth to tell friends via phone
Tape my lips shut and make it go away.
This is worse than after the divorce.
My mood is like your blood sugars
able to fall, plummet, based on a single action
one tiny second.
I tell myself
You witnessed my marriage.
How does God decide what to give each of us?
The hugs, the clothes,
the dinners, the stories,
your hand holding mine.
Let me rest now and wake to find
solitary happiness.