A Widower Revisits Your Bedroom to Confess, by Dylan Debelis

You were one of those singing drunks,
those bar stool-standing, midriff-flashing
all night benders

who always had Advil tucked behind her tongue
and spun out Newport Light smoke like quilting.

Once we skinny dipped in the Euphrates,
the hillside’s rolling spine burned alive
in fireworks and chanting. Yellow garlands
drifted into the thinning atmosphere
until they died and bloomed again.

There is a rhythm to the aftershocks.

I smell cigarette cloves in the pockets of my jacket
that you used to wear to concerts.

I find books you put in storage,
and painkillers in my pantry,
and dresses left for dry cleaning.

On these new July nights, I hold against my cheek
a moon that is dry, cool, and mostly rigid
like a chunk of stone or iron.

***

Dylan Debelis is a publisher, poet, performer, chaplain, and minister based out of New York City. A candidate for Unitarian Universalist Ministry, Dylan embodies his faith in praxis through his pastoral care and social justice activism. In sermons, writings, and worship, Dylan weaves grotesque worlds, loving embraces, and an off-kilter wit to lead the audience or congregation in a very unorthodox prayer.

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