When my friend is low, we walk by the river — Joy Sullivan
It’s somehow still a pandemic and we have nowhere
to put our rage. My friend tells me how he has begun
to imagine the finishing touches of his life. He counts
the things he’s lost. As he talks, I imagine tethering
a silver thread from his body to mine. It’s dusk.
The geese are all headed home. Our two bright
shadows grow longer. Grief is a clump of dark
feathers in the grass. The sky runs purple and petals
out. We look around. It’s almost cruel, he laughs—
after everything, how the world still insists
on being beautiful.
