I do not keep death dates in my palms,
like heavy shackles of despair, memory askewed
by mourning

i grip the river tight to where my heartbeat paths from
chest to sky, a silver ribbon
of prayer, a string of birds
rising high

the fog closes in on my silent wondering, your epitaph
pulsing under my fingertips—

some day it was
that you died
and i cried, God knows,
i cried.

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