By Marissa Beaty
To John and Lilli. Camelot will never be the same without you.
I'm thinking about the sun
sifting through green-leafed trees
that shake with the coming breeze
and bow the lines brimming from
my hand.
You remind me
one,
two,
sink.
one.
I feel the line against my finger
the fibers against my flesh.
With a quickened heart, I reel
and snap.
It happens, you say.
I cast again and get back in the
rhythm.
one,
two,
sink.
one,
two.
I don't know what color you'd be if angry.
As I pull at the strings
of my failing memory,
not a moment contains
a burst of red
or a whisper of blue.
one,
two,
but I remember your beer-bellied laugh
that came out through the lungs,
and sent your chair way back
so that the depth of your joy
can be measured
by the depth
of the Earth in which you
sink.
I'm coming to the end thinking about yours.
They're blaming it on your lungs.
Compromised, is how they phrase it.
But there's no one to blame.
one, I'm angry,
and defeated,
and brimming with grief,
two, but this grief isn't just mine to bear.
No, your life was well-shared,
and in honor of you,
we lift our poles in the air and
cast again.
one,
two,
sink.
