They All Return, The Treasured Ones

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They all return,

The treasured ones.

Sometimes it’s my sister

the way my voice becomes her’s

my vocabulary possessed 

by a single ghost word

It’s her.

Not me.

It’s her.


Sometimes it’s my dad

when I laugh

in the after hours

and silence becomes

a billowing parachute.

It’s his enchantment

that tucks me in.

It’s him.


Sometimes it’s my mom

in the mirror

It’s her nose. Greek.

Her eyes 

a duet of iris sorrow

that no one ever heard

but me.

It’s her.


Sometimes it’s my dog

When I walk myself

along the shore

Imagined paw prints unfolding

She hears my whistle.

She looks back.

It’s her.


Sometimes it’s my fallen friend

Who makes cameos in my dreams

that feel as real

as the grief-stricken moon

or the just stilled heartbeat

which only moments ago

pulsed

like my hand me down watch

that I depended on

and thought would last forever.







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