Chris Abbate

(for Joan Metzner)

I didn’t mean to cry when you died,
death seemed too grave to happen to you.
We would have laughed about it
over pizza and Sprite,
sitting in sunflower porch chairs,
your rescue cats purring at our feet.
You would have leaned in to me,
placed your index finger over your lips
and controlled your bemusement long enough to remind me
not to take life too seriously.

I didn’t mean to cry when you died,
death is too heavy for such a buoyant soul.
You would have dusted yourself off and chuckled,
changed into your pink sweats
and giggled your heart into couplets,
make the page shake with laughter
about something as amusing as your own death.

I didn’t mean to cry when you died,
death is too frightening for your child eyes.
You would have embarked on a speaking tour,
called it My Misfit Life,
sermonized over how awkward it was to be human:
undone shoelaces and lost keys,
runny noses and aching knees.

Weighted under the albatross of Sisterhood,
tied into a corner of your mind,
you heard Heaven’s laughter
and plunged headfirst into cool pools of words.
Reborn, you gleefully inscribed your heart onto paper,
etched lines into the blue page of the sky
leaving behind pebbles of starlight,
strands of gold in the Great Poem,
gentle reminders of how we are sprung
from mystical moments of joy.