Noonday sunbeam afterthought

Talk of the boon ended shortly after
sullen sunbeams erupted their hazy
mazes across the slope of that muddy
field where I stood talking on a phone,
hair hidden face, reason, both icy and
uncustomary, or fingertips pulling tubs
of water up from sinks;

and I thought about the boon,
you deader than
doornails, or dirt,
or daybreak once removed
from the horizon of eyelashes,

long ago drunken love potions,
anti war rallies, missed birthdays,
and I cant remember what I was
wearing that day, though it seems
important now that I should know
all the infinite finite details.

It wasn't a romantic notion of
mulling over VictorianEmo
chokeholds of poetically lush
death, it was real, it was seventeen
summers smitten with itself, it
was cold in May, flopping calendar
days aside, month, after month,
or putting a body, with a face

with a voice,
with a name

into the coldest ground even though
theoretically it was already spring,
and the sun had come out, as if
an untoward afterthought sticky in
mouths broken of breath.

a/n: because it's getting to be that time of year again when everything I write is about her.