after Ruth Stone, “Train Ride”
He is dead. Never again to pull on the fencing mask, moonwalk to his bedroom or snuggle on the couch. Not dancing on the stage. He is dead. Not spinning the gator through the field. Not graphing equations for fun. Is he dead? asks the heart. No, he lives on forever. In the scent of lemon. In the cloudy ice on the pond. In the buds of the lilac tree. In the song on my breath. He lives in blue sky and comet and field. He lives in ink and in spaces between. He is dead. I held his body in my arms. Since that day, he has never left me. He is alive forever.