Prelude to a eulogy

when my hair turns silver and the menstrual
moon's absent red tide leaves my skin pale as milk,
you will find me in the folds of age.

I will not regret my biography, nor will I
argue the riparian rights of my lost flow.

I won't pen my own obituary, or ask
to be interred with anything not suited to dust.
But I will leave my poems here, with you.



Twelve months of haiku

January

Two months, you've been gone.
I can't put away your clothes-
it is too cold now.
February

I sleep like a cat-
I have not washed my hair or
done the laundry yet.

March

I am a sparrow-
your reflection in windows,
banging into glass.

April

Green things poke through soil-
a blanket to warm your grave.
I am cold- so cold.

May

The birds annoy me.
They sing as if you were here.
I close the windows.

June

Your blanket is thick-
mine is pulled over my head,
despite the noon heat.

July

You explode in stars-
bits of paper with your name
blaze their way to ground.

August

The grass you watered
fades now, beneath a hot star-
tear-stained; brown like sand.

September

I found you beneath
raked leaves, and a dry-eyed sky.
The colors are gone.

October

You were sick, this time
last year- begging for an end.
You knew I'd listen.

November

Your grave is flat now.
There is green moss on your stone.
Your head rests gently.

December

I folded your shirt-
your scent clings to the walls here.
I can't put it down.


How to close the date

Break down the moment
take your hands, bury them deep-
memorize my hair

Trace my cheek, like this-
just the tip of your finger
but don't kiss me yet

Wait until I beg
with my posture and my eyes-
then do it slowly

I am not your señorita

I know you can't undress my words
with your eyes; they refuse to peel.

My eyelashes won't fall onto your
pillow; you can't save them there.

I won't gather dust on your shelf, or
ink your name into the flesh of my belly.

I won't save your letters while I count the holes
in my shoes, or cling to the smell of your shirt.

I am not your señorita, or the salt
on the rim of your glass.

(c) C.E. Laine 2002


C. E. Laine
is widely-published writer and a student pilot.