I have not been home in one hundred and
thirty nine days when you sat at my bare dirt
swathed feet and said, remember me like this

I have not been home since June thirteenth at
eleven fifty eight when I licked the peach juice
river from the crevice in your chin

I have not been home in the two hundred
thousand one hundred sixty seven minutes and
fifty seven seconds since your flight

**

Your mother has bathed her kitchen floor in
sunlight; it reminds her of your footsteps in the
morning and the way she still hears them

Lord knows that she listens faithfully
for you, and looks for you on the North Faces that
you swore to conquer before going

**

You were an atheist and I was
the daylight; I sucked the snow from your eyelashes
as you whispered to me, I worship

the mountains.