Notes for a Son, 19, Living Abroad

Often when entering sleep 
I start awake, your form having drifted 
into vision, your name embedded 
in the thickness of my tongue. 
Recurring dreams move me through foreign streets
where I spot you in alleyways 
and turn back to find you. 

Sleep becomes a hard labor 
toward things unsettled between us, 
until what we never did 
becomes more real than what happened. 
I tell no one that each morning 
my body has more weight, enters stark light 
moving with the terrible caution 
of the infirm, walks through the day’s tasks 
expecting my hands to move through 
the cup or the desk-top 
as though they were dreamed there. 

At last a routine in your absence 
takes hold; things seem solid again 
in their places. 
But the house tries to resurrect 
more of your presence. 
The piano stays tuned 
for the classic and ragtime fortissimo 
of your style. 

To telephone voices that inquire 
for you, I want to explain both 
that you are gone, and that something of you 
remains, waits for your body light 
to enliven what’s real 
and make it whole.