Happy Birthday, Annie!

And on your special day, a poem.  I hope you don't mind that I'm still writing you.  It helps me make sense of things, and honor your memory with art.  And besides--I think everyone should know how awesome you be.

 Annie was a box of jewels.  Every time you opened the box, you got a new treasure.

–Aunt Vicky

 

Annie’s Lament

That thing

that thing in the

that thing in the box is

that thing in the box is not my Annie.

She never

she never would’ve

she never would’ve worn that

that shade

that shade of lipstick.

I kissed

I kissed her

I kissed her for

I kissed her forehead.

She

she was

cold

she was cold and she

and she smelled

and she smelled like

like nothing--

she never did that when she wore a body,

like I still

I still must do.

When she wore her body, Annie smelled like life

like three thirty in the after all night dancing morning covered in sweat and the residue of sweet sounds, with tired sillygiggle smiles and sore stinky feet.

like a Priestess swinging incense circling a popping cinder tribal fire offering gentle warmth, cooked meat and an eyebrow singe all at the same time.

like fucking in the forest as naked toes dig into the verdant loam and bestir the scent of voluptuous decay beneath writhings and all the groaning moans are a good name for god.

Annie smelled like that.

Annie was communion. 

From her bread we learned worship; from her wine we learned praise.

This we did in remembrance: the divinity of being human.

Annie didn’t know what happened after death

but

she had the strength to admit ignorance, the courage to befriend the not knowing.

Now she

now she knows

what happens

what happens when you

when you die

and

and I

and I

I still don’t.

I open the box of Annie

that lives in my heart.

Every time,

I get a new treasure.

Each treasure gets wet,

threatening to dissolve,

yet stays whole.

Soon,

soon, I tell me,

soon,

I will stop sobbing

and learn

and learn what happens

what happens when you

live.