When I found him he was cold.
White foam filled his open mouth,
Foam stiffened like lace spun with bone,
Stiff as an age-old argument.
Death wins it.
He lay aslant his bed,
felled before he could stand.
His eyes were closed; sealed and done.
The dog was barking and barking
Over her empty dish.
David, with whom I had a turbulent on-again/off-again relationship for four years, died last November. What I wrote here is true, but I’m not sure what I think about the poem itself, or the fact that I’m posting it. I wrote two poems tonight, the first serious poems I’ve written in decades that I did not immediately discard. This is the second one, though it’s labeled Poem #1. When I come apart I go backwards.