measures

I measure
our distance
in habits
I break.


They ask:

“when?”

I say
long enough
I’ve stopped
hunting zodiac
for fish.

When

they ask
how long,
I say:
so long
I zip
myself up.

I measure 
our distance
in memories
of muscle.

They ask:

“when?”

I say
so recently
our hands
still try
to touch.

When

they ask
how long,
I say:
I spin
the ring
I buried.

I measure
our distance
in bone
and body.
They ask

“when?”

I say
too long.
His body
is ash
without me.

When

they ask
how long,
I say:

A heartbeat.
A heartbreak.


Not long.

13 thoughts on “measures

  1. This reminds me of when I had to go to the funeral home to retrieve Christopher’s ashes. While driving there, I wondered if I’d be able to carry the box by myself; after all, he was a 6’1″, 200lb man. I still wondered if I’d be able to carry the box, even as the attendant came into the room with it and placed it gently on the table in front of me. I still wondered if I’d be able to carry the box, even as I carried it to the car and put it on the passenger seat — I wondered if I should have seat belted it, or something. Because it was heavy, even though I could carry it.

    This post reminds me …

    Like

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