CALL ME BELOVED

he’s somewhere up north and coming home.
I imagine him ripping the posters off the walls,
torn corners of photographs stubbornly fixed
to the sheet rock with masking tape and blue tack –
the only part of that annual ablution I enjoyed,
the moment when the walls are clean and bare
and for a second you feel just the same.

I’m thinking about what he said just a few nights ago,
catching me late at night as I was ready to give in
and go to sleep, an off-hand comment profuse
with that beautiful kind of vulnerability,
delivered cooly, a shameless edge to it. he knew
exactly what he was saying and I was too slow
to tell him how fully I understood.
among other things it’s these moments
that keep him close to my heart.

I’m thinking about the beer I’ll buy
to offer in hospitality when I see him,
the proper sentiment for the situation.
already I’m picturing his hands, how I hate them –
prematurely calloused and old, stoically wrapped
around the bottle. I see that dimness in his eyes
I’m hoping will be absent. it’s not anything
that I’m ready to see again, not enough time passed
since I’ve forced it out of my own sight, grown used to it
or forgotten about it – whichever came first.

I’m thinking about what I’ll say and how I can bear to.
this weighs on me heavily, another decision
that makes me feel hundreds of years old and
full of sad wisdom only good for filling pages.
I feel it’s my responsibility, sometimes,
to find the words, the right way to say goodbye.
these are the moments that language leaves you.

this is how I’ll say it – taking him in my ancient arms
and telling him with that beautiful kind of vulnerability
god be with you – hoping beyond reason that
he will understand what I mean. if he does,
I’ll see it in his eyes and be satisfied.