After Astor Piazzolla



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, the glow 

of 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.