Your voice used to rasp sweet
as a cat's tongue. Now cold
soaks into my finger bones,
traces the knuckle skin, brushes
the tiny seagrass that wavers
and weeps on the
backs of my hands. Spring
was many years ago
and will never come again.
I wish I could recall your voice:
how it wounded the air
like a finely ground saw;
how it drew blood from my ears, back
when there was blood in my ears, back
when there was warmth in the world.