After mass, every Sunday in the churchyard
I’ve come to visit you, touch the weatherings
along the roseate stone carved with your name,
birthdate, death date. Then with my fingertips
I drop a kiss along the façade, pretending you’re inside.
Sometimes my fingers slip, I brush my waiting place
below or next to you, I’m not sure which.
“That check includes you, too, Peter,” Father Jim said,
his faith in immortality, melodious, monotonous,
a little concerto for violin and cello.
You’re no more there than are here,
where, when, I go to find you, these revenants
haunting the top drawer of the dresser.
Multicolored panties, I bought you holidays,
those pearls caught in your engagement picture.
Next Sunday, maybe, I’ll skip a visit.
Why try to find you when you’re always
shadow and light intertwined beside me,
day-night, sun-moon, their syncopations
unasked for, random grace I can’t answer.