The goodbye

In front of the black Chinese screen

with bird scene – white crane stands in blue

water, its dark beak open, ready to pluck

a fish. Beside the crane, a bare cherry

tree; at the roots or afloat on the water

circling crane legs, the fallen blossom -  

she reclines upon the aquamarine

couch I always moved when she vacuumed.

Her neck, the underside of a white

Calla Lilly, exposed as if offered

in brutish irony to my open lips -

though this fish has escaped

into places my mouth cannot reach.

A bluish vein moves to dispose

the perfect symmetry

of that neck as an insect works

on the parting words she prepares.

I hear a clack of beak, a ruffle

of feathers, a distant flap

of flight –  there are places

I will never venture.

Her hand waves, languid as death.

Her hooded eyes, distant as a crane,

stare into depths - my hand

rubs my forearm, checks for scales.

Closing the wooden door

I spent a weekend stripping

and polishing with beeswax, I hear

her coffee voice utter a gentle reminder

to place her key in the green letter box

after I pass beyond the click of her gate.