1. february 2nd

your shirt still hangs
forlornly in my hall cupboard,
a quiet visitor too shy to
make his excuses and leave. you
had worn it the day that
there was four inches of
snow. i had asked you if
painting trees coal-black
could be called art; you said
no, not when so many bored
women and men died
of heartbreak every winter.
and now, your shirt hides
between an elderly overcoat and a
taffeta bridesmaid dress from 1997,
because i cannot dwell
on black tree-bones any more.

2. february 28th
there is a funeral on the
hillside; the family are
Chinese. I can hear them braying
with the weight of their loss from
where I sit at my kitchen window. they
turn away instead of staring blindly
into the grave as the coffin disappears. i
push back tears angrily as i think: why
did i not do that?

3. april 17th

you had always liked
people who were kind to
pigeons, you said it was a good
judge of character. a woman stands
alone in Regents Park feeding
the birds. one has a crippled
wing and cannot fly-- it picks at the
wet grass, a hungry sky-rat
bound to the earth. i wonder if
it has ever had to worry about
a missed period, a dropped
hairdryer in the bath. i shiver
beneath the cold, bright sun.

4. august 9th

sometimes i feel as though this
insufferable heat could drive me to
the four stubborn corners of
my sanity. i haunt record stores
and subway platforms; everywhere
i see your yellow hair, the awkward
grace of your foal-limbs in some poor
commuter. i swig at understanding
bottles of Evian, tut at my
panting geraniums, wish that a little
rain would come.
in my restless dreams, i am dying
and you are watching, your face
unreadable.

5. october 30th

the ivy growing up the walls of
the house has turned a brilliant
red. the pavements are carpeted
orange and yellow; so much orange
it feels like my heart will
burst. for the first time in fourteen
months and eight days, i am
wearing lipstick. i look in the mirror
and an unfamiliar face peers out. she
admires her happy mouth.

6. december 15th

has it been that many months
and days, or did you leave
just a second ago? though i
seldom lose my bearings
anymore, i still miss the warm
geography of your body, the
borders and rivers of your
skin, on these dark
Zhivago mornings. sometimes it is
as if  i am the one who has
disappeared, and you are the
one who has buried me. i am
telling you this, yellow bird, as
i stand beneath your thin
skeleton-trees in reverent
wide-eyed prayer; i stare up to
the sky, and all i can see
is white. i wait for the snow.