Visitation

            I dreamt I was sitting in the church, not as it is now,
with its purple seats and projector screens and live
            streaming, but as it was when dad
dragged us to choir rehearsal on his visitation days:
            the uncomfortable pews and their scratchy bloodwine
fabric, the midday light’s heat holy and magnified
            by the stained glass in the air-conditionless sanctuary,
the first edition bibles stuck in the back of every row for the sinners
            who failed to supply their own. The congregation
was singing, every word muffled from my position
            in the back, the pulpit an impossible distance away.
The service ended and as I exited, I heard a voice that stunned me.
            The last time I saw you – body still, blood saturated
with morphine – I felt I was already speaking to your absence.
            I thought grief would be more dramatic, but no.
Not that simple. It’s been small things. Spices right
            in some stranger’s sweet potato pie.
Plastic orchid sitting on my desk. Women reacting
            to a new hairstyle, like when, long before your final
diagnosis, you cut your long curls to stay a step ahead
            of the medicine. This dream I woke from damp-cheeked
with the woman who had your voice and smile
            but not quite your face. It wasn’t you
so I woke up weeping. You were so close the loss
            made itself new in me.