On the day of your passing
I watched your friends
some, to high places—tops of trees
to wave their branches in winds that waved yours,
tips of staves, ascending keening notes—
some, to low—bottoms of dollar wells,
to floor drag their bare-ash eyes—
and some at sea level—coursing
wool-wrapped, in dumb suspension—
like I, who knew you neither first, nor best,
nor last, nor least.
I felt the grey sheetrock of time crumble.
Tasted your memory, fresh as raw meat.
Then, we gathered again—
collected from myriad corners our selves
to pelt against your pine box
and called it your testament
Lituo Huang writes in Los Angeles. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in JMWW, Bosie Magazine, and The Bethlehem Writers Roundtable.