to a person I can’t live without
Saw a crane today. Storms came through.
Hid in the basement while the driveway flooded.
Potted a peace lily. Big scoops of dirt.
The kitchen table covered in newspaper and ground.
I held your shoulders while you died.
You mouthed to your mother. Reached for her.
Held your arms out for her. I think she was present
but only visible to me as a moth: shimmer of wing
in my morning hair. Your mouth ran hot and dry.
The garden blooms incrementally. Fields of robins now.
Do you know I saw one’s single red shape for the first time
this year the day you left me for good?
The season is delicate, delicate.
Gas: $3.35 a gallon. I worked today and yesterday.
I’m eating better than I did before.
I can manage yams, noodles, rice. Anything gentle.
The air outside is fresh and this is where I imagine you—
in your newly found relief: bright and loose. I want to be
luminary, alongside you. I manage in old sweaters
the color of clover. Mutter among the pussy willow’s yellow orbs,
its roots transplanted from your sold off land. Touch
a single gray bloom before the whole branch shakes off
into another atmosphere.
Alyssa Jewell lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan where she is an assistant professor of English and teaches ESL and creative writing. Her work has appeared in Best New Poets, Poetry Daily, Virginia Quarterly Review, Witness, Denver Quarterly Review, Colorado Review, North American Review, Washington Square, and Poet Lore, among other publications. She is co-editor of poetry for Waxwing and coordinates the Poets in Print reading series in Kalamazoo, Michigan. She is a recent Ph.D. graduate of Western Michigan University and has received support from the Vermont Studio Center. Website: alyssajewell.org