By Jordan Godby
"You’re carefully wrapped up
In a black shawl.
Or you were, at least,
On your Ibiza bike-ride
The day your beautifully scarved skull
Bounced off the pavement.
“I’ll be back soon.”
That’s what you told your son
Before you went out.
I just watched The Royal Tenenbaums
And when “These Days” came on
I realized that all I want
Is to meet someone that makes me hear
Sweet, finger-plucked guitars
That bounce off my ears
The way water bounces back off a lake in the heavy rain.
Your voice exists in the same spot of my brain that houses
The sensation of walking outside at 5 a.m.
Dark as midnight,
A nearly imperceptible mist
Gently massaging my face and forearms,
And dew flicking off the tips of each blade of grass I uncover in stride,
Tickling the backs of both legs.
The heavy sleep residing under each eyelid
Suggests a promise of dreams,
But I know that dreams aren’t quite this beautiful.
When I think back to the hottest day of the Spanish summer of ’88,
And how they thought you were unconscious from the heat
And not your bleeding brain,
I wonder why it is that the universe would snuff out
Something so beautiful
With such a whimper."
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