the first time I saw you dead we did not have a chance to talk      at the mortuary you were naked
beneath a white shroud      head & shoulders exposed—waxy on the stainless-steel table—tubes of
fluorescent lights overhead      your once red hair—dye-devolved to orange as it grayed—now
faded washed out      what remained—white & stringy      I kissed you      muttered love you as if
in obligation      our second chance to speak was just before cremation      yet nothing comes to
mind      not clothes      not coffin      not colors      there must have been      a blur of family of
friends & me all speaking      not a word to you but swirling all about you      I am your child the
way a tree branches      the way a fruit falls      & during the years since      I’ve written of how you
spoke of neighbors—but not to you       with the good unsaid you make good copy—an ongoing
oh-bitch-you-wary       in a village        a purgatory       a bardo of memories where—in fragments—
we reside until the last one to know their piece of us dies      it’s then we disappear in a leap moment
of collective release      is the object observed the object changed      you always said redheads
should never wear red

dawn a red bird rises
from the branch
white blossoms on the path


talk soon

—Jay Brecker

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