by Gary Percesepe
pari berk, 1973-2021
You’ve gone silent graveside
now we must speak for you
But you who called eleven times a day!
I’d rather speak to you
We drove home in shock
just the way we’d left
That night I felt you cold
in your shiny new coffin
But had no blanket
big enough to cover you
Earlier that day we’d taken dirt
by the shovelful
We covered you with love
the way you’d covered us
That night I dreamt of
coffins under sail
And thought of the apartment
where I’d first known you
Beside the bruise-colored river
that flowed in both directions
Do you recall when we were young
we’d think there is always more to come?
Yet what we have now and barely remember
is the only thing we ever had
But I wish you summer-gold
hills of wild grass
A white room of snow at Steamboat
with no lift lines
And ice blue afternoons on the river
through the narrow channel to sea
Gary Percesepe is the author of eleven books, including three published in 2021: Moratorium: Collected Stories (Atmosphere Press), Gaslight Opera (Poetry Box), and Light Turnout (Finishing Line Press). He resides in White Plains, New York, and teaches philosophy at Fordham University in the Bronx.
A-Minor 