The Rōbert [Cholo] Report (pron: Rō'bear Re'por)

From a deathbed,

there is ample time

to locate the door,

together, late at night

they decide 

that the butterflies 

are the portal. 

These homemade 

strands of wings

a best friend made, 

brightly colored things

against the curtain

of autumn, 

a last act

for the final act. 

By now, 

the walls are 

thin as leaves, 

and everyone knows

they will blow away.

He is prepared 

to leave her,

and also not 

prepared.

There are decisions

to be made, 

and then again,

haven’t we been 

here forever? 

One foot in each world,

always arriving

and departing, 

not so much between 

as of both, as

this too is 

perfect,

like love, like haiku,

like the last ripe tomatoes,

the covered mirror,

the way she knows how

to do this

with so little practice,

she is prepared 

to say goodbye,

and also not prepared.

The flowers she planted

for him are making 

their last grand stand 

in the garden,

the ones we pick to lay 

on his body, sunstruck 

heliopsis and dahlia,

sage and lavender,

the dogs linger close.

What the fuck,

she says at his feet, 

it’s absurd,

it’s out of our minds,

unfathomable as a baby.

They say the spirit 

lingers for three 

days after, the breeze 

moves in 

through an open window,

slams shut the parlor door,

and one might say,

Did he just depart?

but instead she says, 

Use the broken winged

angel for a doorstop,

and so I do

and all these

broken winged angels

have never been

so beautiful.

The crown is cold first,

and yet, still he is here, 

he and his books,

and so I go through them

like he wanted,

this man I wish

I had known better,

and perhaps now I do,

this wise guy,

this sleeping monk, 

now more sun 

than cloth, more moth

than cocoon.

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