The Difference

published in Sequoya Review

The setting sun on your eyelids
gives the world a hue like the inside
of a cantaloupe, and that hue is
the world. No songs here of love or
light or leaving, only that color
sleeping lightly in a hammock lashed
with warmth. This is the feeling I think
you will feel when you pass away.
When I die, trumpets will announce
my disappearance. The mourning will go on
for three weeks, with everyone in the world
wearing black or gray. It will be cold
in the world, and winter will come early.
No one will speak. Language will be tilled under
with my bones, when the spring comes, finally,
red and already exhausted. The sun will stay low
in the sky from a forgotten shame.
I will not forget you. I will look for you
in the tide pools of fire, but I will not find you.
I will seek you out in the deserts that will be
the entire world, all thirst bleached-white,
but you will not be there. You who died
in silence will be in a silent garden
the color of a cantaloupe. I will be deafened
by the sound of my passing until the mountains
burst open and hell runs out of its closet,
screaming, catching the world on fire.