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.