By Michael H. Brownstein
Lori’s memorial service was held last Sunday.
He told me she was his rock.
I already knew that.
He told me how beautiful she was.
This, too, I knew.
He told me he missed her.
I told him she was the house he dreamed
and he was its foundation.
I told him she was the stately oak
and he was its roots.
He married her after her stroke,
took care of her for five years
even when the path led only to quicksand
and hardened lava, sink holes and mud.
I thought how God brings people into your life
for a reason—she was his reason/
he was her angel of glory.
I want to let you know how rich they were together.
It’s important to me that you know.
They had a real love, a love so rich it shamed bankers,
shamed people yearning to be of the one percent,
and, yes, they were richer than even the richest half-percent,
their love so great, so strong, even after the stroke
she was everything and so was he.
Enrique, remain steadfast in your love.
Remember your last night together.
You sang with her and I know Amun listened,
I know Osiris heard, I know the Turquoise Prince applauded,
I know Pacha Mama sang along.
Dance, Enrique, dance.
Your love is already immortal.
| Copyright © 2022 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s volumes of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else and How Do We Create Love?, were published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018 & 2019, respectively. |
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