After Astor Piazzola
I stand at the window in our kitchen,
watch as you cut peonies out back—
two days past the date of our son’s death.
We survived another year, numbed
our way through the day we never mark
on calendars. Somehow, we slipped
through its dark gate and into this late
afternoon in May, this quiet evening
so plain yet aglow with our garden toil.
Bouquet in hand, you walk to the house.
I listen to Oblivión, let bass and bandoneón
lace the air of our circling, the dance
we trace on the floor of fading years—
even as you sigh, even as you arrange
your flowers and weep before this small
thing of beauty, this one life that is ours.
Published in The Atlanta Review, Fall 2015
Poetry issue, Vol. XXII, No. 1,
as International Publication Prize Winner.