Jenny Byrne

            I do not want to lament the day you died,

            each year, purging up the aisle of

            expectation to kneel and prostrate

            I am ready for the day to come and know

            there is no must, no proper, no should

            I may trace a fingertip across your scarf

            of orchid silk, allow jewels to glisten in my palm,

            scatter photos, hold linen to my face

            and breathe you in — less of you with time;

            but still, a tiger knows her cubs,

            animal instinct reciprocates

            This pace, once chaotic, stumbling,

            shape-shifting to satisfy others

            has slowed, is gentle;

            with desire to gratify fading

            I move, a rising relevé in satin slippers

            to my tentative, delicate rhythm

            I may look back from time to time as I lead

            myself forward towards my skyline

            I think you would raise a celestial hand,

            urging me onward.