A shell, snowglobed in a Florida plastic box and a pocket knife: JP.
Ledgers in your cursive distant familiar,
a ring, a missing stone, lapis lazuli from your well worked fingertips.
This purple silk dress, I wore it as a child and imagined it was your perfume.
Prologue to this love affair in a legacy of loss,
a history of disappointed treasures
that trace a line through the cracked palm of an old woman's hand.
Are those my eyes? Is that your hair?
Everything about it is a kiss,
offspring's breathless consummations.
She taught me how to write, she was hardly there at all.
He raged and he judged, ancient knowing all along the coast.
Glass and mirror and your dear voice giving everything
to hold these objects, warm and fluid.
Accept a whisper of aggression to
do it all over again.
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