I took your camera down to the river
thick with ferns and weeds
thinking about photographs,
but you are photographs.
Mom gave me the locket
filled with the smooth gray powder that was once
your muscular calves and red-brown beard,
eyelashes and smile and chest.
It isn’t you.
You have vacated that dust and live in my blood
look through my eyes,
your residence made in every strand of red muscle,
every lock of thick brown hair.
A raven flies over the car:
There is a small pond,
a ripple surfaces:
it’s ‘I’m sorry.’
Lightning shudders my house,
rain slamming my window:
you’re singing lullabies.
I wake with your breath in my lungs.
My house is full of your breath.
Mom says you never meant to leave,
I dream of you and dead means nothing to me.