Steph Bruzon

the bulbs exploded

first, 

then Dad’s aorta burst. 

/

don’t leave,

I’m going.

/

I didn’t leave,

unknowing

/

he would be buried in July.

/ 

the light, still-born and dry, 

and I ask, 

is he without body now?

/

no more skin suit, 

no more chamber? 

/

are we strangers again,

father, are we strangers? 

/

your death has 

declared me

childless,

no words

left to bear.

/

I say your name over and over

like a prayer

before I go to bed.

/

I don’t how to love

without conjuring the dead,

/

so this is only appropriate.

/

I take drags of silence, ash the cigarette

of hope–

/ 

and how else should I cope?

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you’re dead even in my dreams now. 

/

the bulbs exploded. 

then the light went. 

then you,

then you did.

/

and the house we were in 

when we found out wasn’t ours. 

/

it was too far from everyone 

who loved you. 

/

and she lit a cigarette, 

which they reprimanded her for, 

as the bulbs exploded,

shards on the floor,

and your aorta burst.

/

never mind what went first.

/

the light, I don’t even

remember.

/

disregard the illness,

the hunger,

the weather—

/

In another country,

I wait to hear you’re better. 

/

death: 

the trip we could not take together.