and all, somehow, walking around this same lake wearing
crop-tops, tennis skirts, sports bras, nothing
not made for lithe/pert/toned and that’s all 
I could think about on the day he died,
as I took my three-hour walk, as I ate
ice cream for dinner (chocolate laced 
with fudge and jealousy), as I developed
my belly-ache. I’d love to believe
I’d be less lecherous if I’d had my fill 
when I was twenty-five, but – I don’t get full.

Don’t get old was his chief advice, near the end – he’d sit bedraggled 
in his bathrobe and easy chair, and say DGO three times a minute, 
with that gaunt half-laugh of his old humor 
to let us know that while he meant it, he wouldn’t 
make a scene. He did make me scones 
once, and wrote a pronunciation guide in verse: 
scone/yawn/withdrawn/gone. I wrote 
one back, he doted on the meter and ignored 
my assertion: scone/grown/moan/sown.

I was in town two weeks before the end. I didn’t go visit.
He won’t remember anyway, my dad said. Ten minutes after you leave, 
it’ll be like you were never there. Which is comforting
and also bullshit – haven’t you
heard? Remembering won’t save anyone.
It’s been ten years since I was twenty-five.

The day he died I cried twice and we weren’t even close,
I felt like such a good person. I walked and ate and drank 
tea from the self-heating mug my friend gave me 
two years ago, and I still remember 
how I laughed at it – silly humans, making up ridiculous 
gizmos to sell. Silly humans buying them. Until
the next day when all morning I let my tea grow old, 
and found I still wanted it on my tongue, down my throat – 
then I quietly thanked her. Silly humans – 
always trying to stay warm a little longer.