A Silent Concession
It’s my first birthday since you left
which feels like evaporated centuries now.
Even though you were plunging
into the tar pit of sorrow
you called me last year
from the area code of fading memory
trying hard to sound like sing-songy-you
before your vocal cords
became as withered as ancient parchment
And pain became your metronome.
For a few spare seconds
we were toddlers again
daffy and defiant
spinning in circles
in party clothes
driven by the kind of bliss
that is the provenance of daffy dogs
and the courtship dance of flamingos
as we celebrated
with a fallen comrade slice of cake
and a pyramid of presents
That had wiggly ribbons like
The ones in your hair.
When you said goodbye
it felt like a solemn ritual
like we were signing an armistice
that spelled out the conditions of your surrender.
I could not let it end like that.
So I imagined you
on the deck of the Mauretania
in clever tweeds, long gloves, and hat
waving with merriment
to me on the moors
as I watched you disappear into the mist
which we both knew was
a silent concession
that sadness had won.
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