in memoriam Bob M, poet

​

Breath combs the sides of my body,

clean lines of limbs between panes of glass.

Ginger and fig consort at the tip of my tongue.

I enter a secret room through the hole

in my pants pocket, discover bowls of silver coins.

Mountains lie down in submission at my feet.

 

Did I dream such things, or did you

send these images from the other side?

We wish you could see our celebration

of your life, then you enter the room

in the body of a squirrel—right on cue,

after a mention of “small, weird things,” 

and we all cheer to know you made it.

 

Next morning at the bakery, a sign reads

Yesterday $3. Yes, I will take yesterday

for $3 if it means you will return again,

one more time. You always managed

to right yourself after falls of many kinds.

But even a squirrel will have one last fall.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Previously published in One Art: a journal of poetry, December 5, 2023