there is no post or stone, but
each year, to the day,
the weather is appropriate;
sun and wind
bending blades of grass,
nudging the beginnings
of pale tree buds and yellow flowers.
or rain that by nature compels
the expected measure of lament.
it’s trite.
it borders on banal
that I allow the white
or blue butterflies with paper-thin
wings and small straight bodies
to mean something.
even I know that it’s more souvenir
than sign.
the hollow stitch
deep beneath muscles and organs
is only a phantom now,
that brushes against my insides
on the rare occasion
that it is there at all.
i wonder how many
of our episodes are missions
without substance,
that we all agree have attachments
so we can form support groups,
circles of equitable trials
leading to reflective baptisms.
at what point in evolution
did it become essential that we relate?
authentic or contrived,
it hosts a melancholy
that feels real in the moment.
i can’t deny the proximity
to memorialization.
a blue candle.
a silver cross.
words scribbled and quickly
put away.
i can’t deny that i allow blocks
on calendars to incite a proper silence,
or possibly a tear.
much like the butterflies.
regardless of the reasons I give them,
they exist,
so it’s convenient.
like tonight, the wind howls.
it feels more satisfying
to correlate the sharp sting
with the tenor of this day.
even i admit it feels just enough.
INSTANT NOODLES 