You Will Find Her
dipped behind the bread at 9:30pm in aisle five
stuck in-between the railings at the bus stop
underneath the lamppost in the evening glow.
you will think you have begun to forget her scent, her smile
until you find them again in the back pages of a borrowed library book
sitting on the words
you think the grief is over
but then taste a biscuit soaked in tea
only to see her dancing on the waters.
as you open the window
she's perched on top of the lily pads in the pond
your father needs to clean
where the sun beats down its rays, blinding your eyes
and in the silence of the night — where you think
there is no trace to be found —
in faith with god,
prayers said, hoping heaven won't break open, and out she
falls
you will feel her pass through you, a shiver on the bones
only for a moment of embrace, and then she is gone.