I sit on the bench that holds your ashes,
look for some sign of you,
listen for something beyond the static.
But I only see the red oak overhead,
hear only Tamiami Trail traffic.
You aren’t here.
I sit on the bench that holds your ashes—
residue in metal canisters—
sing, read to you about you,
tender prayers into the air.
Last night I watched a dying fire,
last bits of red and orange fading. Now
I sit on the bench that holds your ashes,
the smoke long gone, your living faces
harder to conjure, conversations lost in traffic.
There’s so much in between,
so many you didn’t meet, who never
saw you talk at ease with absolute strangers.
I sit on the bench that holds your ashes,
smile at your corny jokes, now mine.
“New year,” the slender moon declares.
“The gates are open.” Can we meet
in between? Can you fill this space inside me?
As the moon watches, waxes, wanes,
I sit on the bench that holds your ashes.
World to Come, (2015) Jewish Currents, p.22
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