Above

    by Marjorie Power

Above the airport

where I wrote Fred's elegy.

Above squared-off fields,

a crooked line that means river,

above bursts of green

in brown emptiness.

Above clumps of homes

fit for a Monopoly board,

sunset spreads its luxury

so far across the sky

this jet seems

to enter another dimension.

*

No such thing as angels

who party in coral-colored fluff.

Isn't that right, old friend? Is "above"

a fact? What about "surrounding,"

you who kept one foot in almost

every religion? Are you

you again, a Fred-essence,

singing, yammering, shouting,

sharing secrets in a stage whisper?

What's it like without your

massive library? Without us?

Above the bed you died in five days ago

and west of there, farther and farther

from where you are no longer.

I remember when your dog

was diagnosed with cancer.

Your answer: give the vet hell.

Soon came your own diseases.

Came your softening. A decade crept.

Be a breath at my ear,

a blink, a twitch.

Then I'll let you go.

© 2016  Marjorie Power

+ previously published on author’s Facebook page.

Marjorie Power’s poetry collection, Seven Parts Woman, was published recently by Wordtech Editions. Her poems appear in six chapbooks and one other full length collection, all from small presses. Much of her work is in journals and anthologies: Main Street Rag, The Kentucky Review, Adanna, and elsewhere.