It is I

Is is I who died of dust and sorrow

having wiped the dirt from your cheeks

all steam and unconsciousness

I loved you.

It is I who wrote the letter

about your father’s terrible car

and documented your brattiness

in cursive letters under the bunk-bed

I love you.

my rescued shadow cat

mean and nameless calico,

and the mutt from Diné country

we pretend is a French contrarian

I know you remember my diabetic rage,

that time I used the kitchen scissors.

Do you remember, too, breading chicken breasts

in my house with the library ladder,

those days I picked you up to skate?

I dreamed you’d be an ice dancer in the desert,

that we’d play my atrophied piano.

Baby, I am messy but at least I’m grand

at the long dining table

dipping my sleeves in cashmere wine.

I wanted my own baby and all I had was you

you two

eyes blue

and my voice out of tune.

I saw you all grown

at my service

at the Temple

standing on Central

someone said ------ “she loved you,

spoke about you all the time.”

Its okay we had no conclusion

that I don't remember our last exchange

that I died alone, a professor in the desert

and laid there for five days.

Do you know the bliss of Bardo?

I hate being cold.

I got to drown inside

and even then I loved you

I love you.