I do not care if you only come to me in a cloud.
I would be happy to have you
shaping yourself over my house,
over my long hike,
to sit at the table with you
on the other side of the roof
becoming something else.
Miss you as a baby dinosaur, as elephant,
as bunny.
Miss you in a body with a too thick waist
and flaming red hair out of a box,
and one overlapping tooth
and the laugh that could crack an Easter egg.
If I could bring the cloud of you into my kitchen
to sit in an empty chair, melting,
I’d get you to share that vegan chili recipe
With twenty-six ingredients we made in
the small kitchen in Baltimore,
or tell me one of those stories about your mother
that made me crouch and pee from joy.
I know I’m supposed to be over missing you –
It’s been twenty-four years since you
turned into shapes of living creatures in the sky.
Since you gave me that look from your bed.
I went into your bathroom and quietly cried into
a small blue towel, the thread unravelling.
When I came back you said to me –
I can tell by your face everything,
And I said I can tell by your face everything.
I crawled beside you and the soon to be born
baby who would grieve with me.
And I made you lentils and zucchini and
read your daughter three books she memorized.
That night,
that night,
that night.
That night is the whole sky.
I miss you, dear friend.
I’m at the kitchen table again,
looking at the clouds.