When You Have Moved Through This World
I will still ask you for advice. Call you on the ever-after
phone, dial whatever it is one dials for the direct line
to Gone on to Other Worlds. When you pick up, I’ll ask
Should I take the new job? Move to another city?
Sell the house on Beechwood Street? What do you want
me to do with your old clothes, your favorite wishing stone?
Or maybe I’m supposed to shake the bowl of your ashes
like a Magic 8 Ball. Lower my fingers to an Ouija board
and request your presence. Too pedestrian for you, too tame
for your wild self. I’ll have to string a tin can across the world.
Send you my inquiries on scrolls bound to the legs of the phoenix.
Walk to the ocean’s edge, raise a shell to my mouth,
whisper your name and wait for the salt-sea connection
of heart to heart string. And then I shall ask,
Tell me, my love, my dead love, what to do with me?
Postscript: My creative inspiration has not yet come back. So I’m baking cookies instead. Sometimes you just have to admit defeat.