• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 09


A perfect send-off, though we'd expected otherwise,
our goodbye grew colourful, noisy, the way you
would have chosen if you’d had chance. Too sudden

your departure, no time to prepare, days monochromatic,
as though colour / sound / desire ripped from the world
with you. Only silence felt right, until loaded with urn and ashes,

we strayed upon them: two musicians, their babbling kettle,
a feast pressed upon us. As we forced pasta / herbs / wine
into our sad maws, the polka reached out, insistent, weeping

into skin / bone / blood, basil-sweet, grape-tart, memory-laden.
We sought each other’s eye, let frantic notes overwhelm us
and soothe. As the song hit its crescendo, we poured you out

into grass / dirt / dust, watched particles of you float treeward,
a tiny chunk of bone glowing comet-like in the sun’s confident
rays – in that moment, assured – you’d never be truly gone.