The bees did not buzz
at your funeral
But the sun sounded
like static
or socks rubbing against carpet
My black shoe traced
a Star of David in the crackling grass
like the one on your coffin
and my body felt like a rock
resting in someone’s quivering palm
You would have laughed
to see us all together like that
murmuring the Mourner’s Kaddish
in our ridiculous blackness
Tossing handfuls of earth
on that long wooden box
that will never contain
the Unfinished You
The Rabbi recalled
calling you to the Torah
then he called you an “unfinished symphony”
He called us to prayer
and we answered
But for days I will be
unable to write without feeling
your clean hands
surprising my shoulders
and every laugh echoing
under the bridge where I skip stones
will make my heart skip
a beat
They say that sex
and death
are the only worthy topics of poetry
but you left your grieving lover
to write about the first
And these days I regret that I never wrote
about your starched syllables and
ironed phrases
The rain did not fall
at your funeral
We joked that our tears were enough
to quench the ruthless
thirsting earth
Now drinking you deeply
on some evening porch
without me
I do not know
how to conclude anything
but I suppose one day
your still-singing stanzas will fade
and I will return to a more
barren reality
Laughing
but only because you’d want me to
—Heather Paul