Poetry is the most precise form of expression, providing words to thoughts and feelings in a way that forms a connection with ourselves and others, reminding us all when we read it that we are a collective, that we are not alone, despite the fact that we are individuals. The precision with language in poetry is necessary to capture exactness when describing the world, interior and exterior. That exactness is the thing that makes poetry different from other types of writing. That exactness is the reason it communicates with our sense of being rather than just our intellect. 

Blood, yes

closed casket.

I brought

flowers to your

funeral

even though

you were dead.

And soon

they died too,

the tulips,

though no one

watched or

cared.

And had I

brought you

those tulips

before you left,

what then?

No. I had to stop

wondering

about that.

I had to keep

loving the world.

What’s left of you

has no way to

be astonished

by the horror

and beauty

of things

as I do. Still,

here you are

at the edge

of existence,

roaming

my mind’s

airplanes and

hotel rooms.

“When was the last time you visited Elena’s grave?” Julie asks. We’re sitting on the terrace of my small apartment in Zihuatanejo, an open bottle of wine on the table between us.

I don’t know what to say. Why does it matter when I last visited the grave? We’re all allowed to mourn in our own way. Mine was to escape—to start a new life 2,000 miles away.

“I can’t remember,” I say. “I don’t live in the same city as the grave anymore. You do realize how weird it would be for me to fly up to California just to go to the cemetery, right?”

“Don’t you think it’s important?” Julie scolds. “She was your sister, too.”

We often argue about things related to Elena. What would Elena have thought when I quit my fancy academic job to live in this small beach town in Mexico as a freelance writer? What would Elena say about Julie’s new solar panels on her house? Julie projects her own judgments onto Elena now that she’s gone, but Elena was never one to judge.

“Why did you come down here, Julie?”

“I wanted to see you, to make sure you’re happy with, I don’t know, being here. I was reading that depression might be genetic.”

After Elena’s suicide, Julie developed deep lines on her face. She is only 28, but she looks ten years older. I’m older than she is, but no one would guess that anymore.

“I’m happy,” I tell her. “Teaching left me no time to write. My whole life was in a classroom or grading papers.”

Silence. Silence means she's telling herself secrets. Good. I don't want to hear them.

“It is a beautiful town. You’re learning Spanish—that’s really cool. And the sunsets here are incredible. Elena would have loved them.”

“Why don’t you move down here too?” I ask. “You could be my neighbor.”

I know she would never move. She has her house and her job and her garden and her solar panels. She has Elena’s grave to take care of. I nod to the African violet sitting on the bookshelf.

“I keep Elena’s favorite plant by the window. It’s something. A gravestone is just a symbol. She’s not really there anymore. You know that, right?”

Julie ignores me. She checks her phone, and I stare at the wilting violets. They don’t do well in the heat—this isn’t anything like their natural climate. But they’re surviving.

Julie asks, “Why is it so easy for you?”

As she finishes the question, she’s already started sobbing. The waves are crashing loudly into the shore today. I can hear them from here on the terrace. I look out over the bay, my new home, and think, Elena would have loved this. Then I reach over to hug my sister. It’s peaceful, all of it, even her soft sobs.

“It’s not easy,” I say. “Elena is dead. That was her choice. But we are still alive. That can mean something great, if you let it.”

The house was falling apart. You know,

shutters hanging, closet door off its tracks,

some wide blinking

brown eyes through the jagged hole

in the middle. Someone kicked it.

Chipping paint shaping a new Pangaea

across the walls. I got lost

peeling it like I would dead

sunburnt skin on my shoulders.

Leaks from where the roof was flat,

a crack curving down the center

of the porcelain tub that we used to

fill with hot water and soak

together in overflowing bubbles

like nothing was

wrong. The end always

us fucking on the damp blue rug

beside us. Once I tried to blame

the hurricanes, but they never came,

only some heavy rain. In truth, the wind

had been calm for a long time. Some nights

were empty, not just the lot

of empty bottles around, beer, 

some rum. Part of an old poem was taped

to the fridge. It said

the art of losing isn’t hard to master

before you ripped it down. I learned

about the difference between love

and attachment from a book first

and then from you.

If I could hate, I could hate you

for kicking the closet door 

that time you tried to kick my dog, 

for that time you kicked my dog.

Then she started hiding in the closet

every time you raised your voice.

You even kicked 

the two baby lime trees

which I bought just before you moved in

and perched with sticks until they were strong

enough to hold themselves up. You never kicked me,

because as much as it might seem like I mentioned

the lime trees to serve as a metaphor for me, they’re not.

I left the day you threw a glass jar of coconut oil

at my face, which was only a day after you started

all the kicking. I can’t say I didn’t 

cry a lot, or that it wasn’t excruciating 

to walk away and so fast.

I did, and it was. 

But the way memory works 

is not so easy.

I still remember how you'd

hold me in your metal arms

like a magnet.

The bank of mud and shells, the white bog lilies gently adrift, breathing, a frog,

not a prince, but a nightmare of hiccupping echoes, sobs, its long song from a hollow throat, and a hollower hollow, an empty house, each room where someone used to sleep, and a pond in a cemetery where they would feed the geese, the children sneaking pieces of bread meant for the animals into their little mouths.

What is it like at first, sleeping in her bed with her husband? I can't answer, or I won't. Some wife without a face, someone’s daughter, or someone's mother. In fact, all the faces are faceless, missing details a dream would. I am wading into a bog. He gives me a sunflower, a heavy and tall one that towers over me. I hold its stem in my hand until it slumps over and smacks my head, sending yellow petals drifting to the thick peaty surface. 

The moon disappears behind a cottony cloud. We are in their kitchen now. It's late. He whispers, almost inaudibly, Can you keep a secret? Not a question, but an invitation. My smile is slow and mischievous. Not guilty, not that I know of, not yet. 

A woman is crying in a room lit golden and dim. She is holding her sons while they stare off blankly into the walls. I am alone in an adjacent room, the lights fluorescent and harsh buzzing like drowned out voices, like bees knocked out of their hive.