Megan Eaves

 

it’s the instants.

melting butter in a pan
a swirl of soy sauce
stirring chopsticks –
that lift grief to my throat.

i was fine just now,
but then

once more, i’ll tell a stranger
how we saw UFOs that night
darting like summer flies
over the Ortizes.

another Dos Equis
desert vespers
thick ice clunking
in mason jars of well water.

you’re everywhere now.
above the Sandias
the pho joints of south London
feathers on trails i walk.

your instructions always were:

…see the world
don’t come back…

and you meant that.