Residence I …




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

and skin,

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:

it’s ‘hello.’

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,

you haven’t.

I dream of you and dead means nothing to me.

About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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