Mourning felts,

wool once

warm, cloaking shoulders,

until a paper presses between

our bodies. The wildness

wasn’t adoration, it was

a diagnosis – a dash onto 695

shirtless, torso spattered yellow, slashed

with blue and black.

Did you heal – did you have

our children, their bodies

still part mine – pink and shaking

against her breast,

rage shaping their splitting cells

as chromosomes blossom, bulging

like husks of vines stealing

the breath

from the wisteria hanging

down my back. You used to grab

handfuls, and breathe –

this beauty has not shifted

your name.