Bidaram, Gordalal, Chogmal & Moheksama

You didn’t come home

when I imagined you would.

You had taken your own boat

to the other bay

where I couldn’t see you.

I was planning my future and it included

not worrying about you.

On the way you bought a rough rope

the type we used to dry the sheets

that you would rub against your cheek,

to feel if they were dry.

I have the receipt from your purchase.

I know the store, the department,

perhaps even the face of the person

who took your card when you paid.

Your favourite place was on that boat

we took it the day after we married

turning the unfamiliar bands on our fingers

our wedding clothes in a back pack

not entirely sure of what would follow.

The rain had soaked your clothes

the blue shirt I first saw you in

Your brown leather boots were stained

with dirt and vegetation.

As the sun rose, fishermen saw you

I imagine them as they turned toward the sky to stretch,

catching a glimpse of your body

hanging heavily against the fence and stone wall.

I can’t remember what I did that day,

while they were untying your body,

moving you into the back of an ambulance,

taking you away.

I thought of my last words to you.

I had tried to stop thinking of you.

Now I try to not stop thinking of you.

I hadn’t expected to love you

as much as I did.

You said we were too different.

But I saw me in you.

Until you disposed of me so easily,

with a few quick-fired messages.

I met you at the station, early,

waiting with anticipation.

Later you told me that I have attitude.

That I’m moody.

When I was simply standing

with a head of disarranged

thoughts.

Of the funeral that morning,

work to finish

and things to read and write,

people who need me,

uncertainty.

You left me hanging,

onto your words.

Harsh, petulant, violent.

Their pain made me laugh,

as I felt you

in every phrase.

I wanted your chest to lie on.

Your thighs to stretch my legs across.

Your neck to kiss,

your hand to hold,

your stories,

to make me laugh.

You forgot to ask.

I snuck out of the room,

after sleeping on the edge of the bed

the gap between us the size of a child

I wanted to tell you everything

How good it felt to have you there

Instead I silently walked my way

into further trouble

only a few miles from your sleeping body

that waited for my return.

I can barely remember your skin

and the jars of your ashes remain

in the drawer of my desk

I would reluctantly give them up

knowing they contain something of you.

Sometimes I contemplate

whether to put them in my garden

or a public place

where people will always have evidence

that a man with your name

existed.

You contained visible heat

after your bare skin soaked up the day

and I breathed you in.

I didn’t tell you

that counting your ribs

and listening to your heart

was a sign of my blind desire.

As I walked at night

I invented reasons

to despise you

while you slept in our hard bed.

You were so easy to love

when all that was left

were your impressions

in the mattress.