Chris Dance

The first thing I saw when I woke was Chris’ face

Eyes still shut hovering on the inside

That bright orange; a Warhol Chris

Pressed into my eyelid

Haloed with blues and fours

Chris’ face, before the accident

Before the crush of metal

Before the diesel fire melted

The asphalt and flesh into one

Chris’ face, and a slowly turning wheel

 

There is a ghost bike there

A tree swallowed part

Gardenias drape the rest

At the turning of the year

I clean the leaves and spin

The wheel

Still see Chris’ face against the inside of my eye

 

I am old now and clippings are brittle

The ghost tree is tall grown through

The wheels don’t spin

I sit on the roots

Chris dancing behind my eyes

 

Chris dancing …

The last thing I saw before I slept

Was Chris’ hand

Reaching for me to dance

Winner, 1st Place FSPA 2021 June Owens Memorial Award

Published in Cadence 2021