Santa Fe I, 2018 & Santa Fe II

Santa Fe I, 2018

I arrive in a sad cocoon. 

My sister drives me to a restaurant 

to meet other lesbian widows.

I listen while picking salad.

I couldn't go anywhere we used to go.

Had to handle everything she did.
I had to come out from behind her shadow.

The second year is the worst, 

you really know, she’s 

never coming back.

In her living room, 

for comfort, my sister

hands me a heated stone, 

says, maybe it’s too soon 

for you to be here.

I crunch gravel on the starry walk 

to a borrowed apartment  a few doors away. 

Clatter keys on the unfamiliar counter,

next to the photo I brought from home.

It’s the night of your diagnosis. 

We’re in a gondola.

My mouth a taught zipper. 

My arms, tight across my chest. 

Your head a sweet weight 

on my shoulder.

In a stranger's bed, I clutch my pillow, 

pound the lack of indent in the spare.

I wake to pelting rain, branches 

thrashing the window.

At breakfast, I chew, 

eating widow’s words -

One day, you will  feel her in you.
Live, until you find your life.

Santa Fe II

Where did I put those keys?

Within seconds,
fragile confidence 

unravels.

Breathe, my sister tells me,

calm down, remember 

you’re logical – but forgetful.

You lost them before,

you'll find them again.

A vague memory leads 

me to my packed suitcase.

In the pocket of the jacket 

I decided not to wear – 

the borrowed keys.

My sister stands on gravel.

We wave tender goodbyes

through smudgy van windows.

I settle into the seat 

moving me forward.