Maya Cowan

I hear whistling from the pot on the stove
When it isn’t there.
I hear silver crackling in the microwave, when I’m doing my hair.

My feet, beat the skin of the park and I see shadows in the morning.
I lay next to you but can’t seem to stop the mourning.

Is it a chance for me to write another eulogy? What happens between us is that pure to me.
It belongs in soil that’s wet, from friends, lovers or worms.

I’ll see you when I can and it won’t be enough. But can the beauty be, that it will die with us?

Reach for me, openly, your arms out because my nearest memory is colder than lonely. This feels unusual, if I could stand it I would.

But I can’t, so I’ll fall.