A Letter to one gone about whom I often think.
You haven’t come to visit me recently.
You haven’t found your way
to my bed or to my body.
I haven’t heard you throw the ball
for the dogs outside my door
in ages. I haven’t felt
your lack of weight stretched out
next to me on my mother’s mattress.
When we traveled to California
it was January and gloomy and war had just begun.
We did our laundry at the Olema
Laundromat bundled up
reading the paper,
a couple on a Sunday afternoon.
Marin County mist in sage and soft brown
you dressed in tweed
me, my bright purple sweater
For me it was potential
for you a sad state of affairs.
What actually carried you away?
What caused you to move to the next
Realm? The next plain, a change
of order, a change of rules,
another chance to be yourself,
a self you never were allowed
to be, you couldn’t bloom?
Maybe you don’t come back to see me
because you don’t need me any longer.
Maybe you’ve found a place where
everyone wants you to become you
fly kites,
play the recorder
hike the Appalachian Trail.
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