The evening after I read your obituary,
you crawled into bed with me.
Your spirit did not muss the sheets
or bend the mattress.
Your voice could have been the breeze,
but the breeze never tells me to eat more avocados.
In your sleepy whisper you recite the lord’s prayer,
but change father to sister.
Your last goodnight is to the birds
as they tuck themselves into the cholla.
Your breathing eased, my breathing eased as well.
Your slight snore signaled you slept. I slept.
All these years and still you snuggle your back into me.
But farther in than in life.
So it is, I wake alone. Dirt from your grave on my hands.
An indelible track shimmers the air.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney