Last night’s candle still sputters on the windowsill,
flecking glass. Its nubby little flame carves
a translucent cavern of wax, thinning out the encircling wall
with its waggle of shadow and light. It sinks
with the charred wrist of the wick to the watery brown floor
of wax that couldn’t resist. I roll over in the middle
of night to scratch out my dream in the undercarriage of my year-old’s
abandoned changing table, a makeshift nightstand,
Bili-bassinet. Afterwards my head caves in. I make funeral
arrangements, compile the playlist.
Late morning, I fling the snow-skinned lawn chair
into the snow-scabbed yard. I lift the lawn chair out of the shadow
of the house and fling it into sunlight. With one bounce
it’s shaken almost totally bare a place for me to sit in the sun.
Lowering my body into its lap, I notice only a ramshackle few ice crystals
on the right armrest. Which full sun sheds in a pile of tears,
a few globules of water. Sunlight and snow light form an infinite
loop around me, one feeding into the other
in the circuitry of my damaged brain, overloading my eyelids.
Remember this when you imagine your funeral
so long abiding in the memory of wife or son,
dying so very disgustingly young. Remember you have not lived
less than your survivors. You have lived more.