Leave-Taking

I watch the river split and billow like the 
sleeves of your old sweater, the blue grey 
one tortured and stretched in all the 
directions your body grew.

I think of your face in a morning of 
careless wind when blood seems to 
push memory backward.

I feel your body shake like an orchid 
held fast in its charcoal.

Your last embrace leaves the sky bare,
and empties my eyes of tears that fall 
like black oil, expressionless as the
sleeping face of a child

© Paul Wittenberger, Substack, January 15, 2024