While I was hiding empties
in the bookshelf of my office
you spoke to a recorder
I gave you for your birthday,
saving words I should have
asked you for in person. I bought you
audio versions of books I should have
read aloud myself. I sent Raquel
with chicken and rice soup
while I refilled whiskey handles
in the cabinet. I didn’t take you
to the zoo to see Fiona ‘til
you were dirt in a can in my pocket.
I couldn’t spend a moment
with you sober
without imagining you
gone because
I was weakest when you
needed
me strong. You
were proud of me still, and wrong.
note: this is one of a series of poems in a chapbook I’m working on entitled “yellows”. to read them in their intended order, start here.