The Wake

So many people I don’t know
at the party for you today.
My lips hurt from smiling, stretched
against my teeth. All I can do
is hug the familiar: your mother,
older, on a cane. We had such
fun, she says, those last weeks.
Smiling, blue-eyed: your eyes
glance at me through her glasses
as if you were running past the windows.

From your photo, high on the mantel,
you look directly at the sun:
etched lips, unflinching gaze—
your smile could melt glass,
your absence is walking
on my heart, but none of us knows
how to break down strangeness
to let in the stranger, grief:
you stand outside the front door.