it aches of loss,
decay surrounding,
memories ambushing me.
This road is where he lived,
the green mile, soiled
Great Grandma broke
at her son's death.
Buildings with detectives
who ask a lot, but never enough.
Plastic play food and mints
while Mom hears too much.
School, adults laced with pity,
knowing eyes always on me.
Counselor poking, always asks,
I don't budge, closed off.
Dusty hills, sage brush, brown.
Nothing suits Yakima like death.
I bring the rain,
you can't forget.
--------------------------------------------------
Late Spring - W.S. Merwin
Coming into the high room again after years
after oceans and shadows of hills and the sounds of lies
after losses and feet on stairs
after looking and mistakes and forgetting
turning there thinking to find
no one except those I knew
finally I saw you
sitting in white
already waiting
you of whom I had heard
with my own ears since the beginning
for whom more than once
I had opened the door
believing you were not far
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