Blue
Michelle Bonczek
On the altar, in an open case,
His saxophone stood waiting
For his absent breath.
Three rows back,
A handkerchief to the corners
Of her blue-shadowed eyes,
The color loud against
Her dark skin, hair, and dress,
His girlfriend cried and said nothing.
A blue not like dark water,
But of evening skies.
Like Hollywood or
Flowers, candles,
And, yes, dancing.
Twirling,
Laughing, leaping,
Stars bursting into blue
To be seen.
After the funeral
I could not look
Into the morning mirror
Without thinking of her
And her blue eye shadow
Or think of him
Without thinking of her
And her blue eye shadow.
While others gathered to speak
About the warrior, artist, son they knew
I stood holding another hand,
Struggling to stay quiet, waiting
For her to speak of who Iąd known.
But no one spoke
Of how his head fell back when he laughed.
How he smelled beneath his black leather jacket.
What he whispered in his sleep, what he dreamed,
How he tasted. No one mentioned
The curve of his forearm, smooth wet of his lips,
What lived inside his blue eyes, what spirit called
His body home. Nobody said these things out loud.
