I am looking for ways to resurrect you
like making notes in the margins of your
favorite book, or writing letters and corking
them in bottles, sending them off to sea.
I dreamt of Dante and the mountain, of the
statues climbing through Purgatory although
they were stone. If I had a braver mind
I would have cast you as Virgil, but even
in my dreams you are buried in the garden.
I think in unrealities, burning incense at
the window, building stone circles creek-side,
praying on my knees in the rain. I am looking
for ways to resurrect you like a wilted flower
on the kitchen counter, golden hour godrays
painting dust faces on its brown-rimmed petals.
I buried my feet in the sand at the gates of Heaven
and sang to the angels’ choir. I wanted to teach
them a new song, one to praise a man instead
of a God, woven of words from journals and
scrapbooks hidden in an oak cabinet, and photos
from an old leather suitcase, all locked with
the same brass key. I’ll plant flowers on your grave
tomorrow, so someday there might be a new garden
where the old one was, red and white, blood and milk.
