JULIE

I.
I've visited every part of your body,
but you're still a foreign land.

II.
You visited us in our hotel room,
just before nine-eleven,
and though I had no inkling
of that, something inside me knew
that I would not see you again.
So I wished it were someone else
getting slowly out of the car.
Our eyes drank each other up,
and then we went to breakfast.
You and Fred were on your way
up north, to see about a dog.
Sandy and Fred,
so understanding,
left the hotel room first.
As I held you in my arms
to say that last goodbye,
I said, "Please, take good care
of yourself." You said,
"I'll try."
But I knew
that you wouldn't.

III.
It happened on Good Friday
of the following year.
A winding road in Mexico,
a road I've known for years.
Sandy, who loved you too,
was the one who got the call.
Only your husband
and your dog
survived.
We each raised a glass
of brandy, and I
could find no tears,
though they
are coming now.

IV.
In a dream you came
a few months later,
I guess to show me the way.
Springing from the board,
you dived in deeply,
and I followed you
to a sunny beach.
There were others
that we knew,
but I could not
stay there yet.
I knew that I
had found the Summerland,
and so had you.

7/10/15