Three Poems I Wish My Dead Friend Could Read

1. Mother Oak

the Oak tree is my mother
not the ashes on the shelf
above clever crafted shell
I crying bow before her
she warmly waves her leaves
as her love takes root in me
Bark lodges in my core, there
it will stay, thankfully, cold
a hated knowing burning out

Am I too big to be dizzy?
Mother Oak extends her branch,
rests me steady in her hand.

2. Forge

I trudge uphill in
the dark towards
the forge where
a quick laugh
is battering a knife into existence.

We follow the sound
We enter the workshop.

The knives are displayed like jewelry,
sinewy and handsome
with ebony, oak, boxwood, and walnut handles.

I watch his hands as he
traces a finger down the
knife that captured the imagination.

gestures lit by fire,
scar attached to the air itself
a rare careless moment
he uses like mortar
to fill holes in conversation.

I ask about it,
and confirm it’s
one of his own blades.

3. After

walk gently, eyes shut
to better see a soft world
without you, with me