What Cannot be Said

by Claire Booker

Friend, let me count the ways I rage
in fractions of your stolen days:

that when they come to lay you out
a convict’s crop will brand your scalp.

These sheets we chose for flights of fun
will graze my skin when you are gone.

Soon none shall know except for me
the secrets swapped as we sip tea

or grasp the loveliness of line
those cloudscapes give our wind-braced pine.

Without your eyes I’ll surely fail
to capture diamonds on the blackbird’s tail

or see our stacks flash ember bright
in streaming skies of varnished light.

And though I fight to hold each drop
our cup is pierced, it cannot stop.

what once we shared is seeping through
into a world devoid of you;

disintegrating with each chime,
each moment’s tick, there is no time.