J. Mae Barizo

Asked to list 10 things I’ve lost, I faltered.
A blue feather, favorite glove, newly cut
keys. Love and flexibility. You
asked me once if you had death inside
you and I lied. After the wake, I waded
through tall grasses—skin electric.
I felt guilty for happiness, that I was
able to undertake simple pleasures
like putting my face in the lilacs or
breathing in earth, after rain. I
listened to your last voice message
and when I looked on the screen
there were violets. I couldn’t list
10 things.

Tell me that you do not think of me, that you
have forgotten the wild proscenium of cloud,
how bodies affix and then elide, the sky’s
stenography. I only ask for you to tell me
you have not forgotten the pink proscenium
of cloud, a testament to our duplicities, the sky’s
stenography. I ask for you to tell me again
that you do not think of me, all the implications
of cloud, a testament to my duplicities, the sky.