I return to the place along the
water and try to picture her face:
pale and chemically confused,
crumpling into a cold collapse.
That evanescent expression
is enough to remind me of
how much I hate the suburbs,
the sorrow, the silence.
If you were to follow the
footstep-carved path toward the
foreshore, and plant your shoes
in the mud of the site where my
best friend once lay breathless,
you wouldn’t know a damn thing.
You’d look out at the lake
and think, how lovely,
while I’d cower in fear
of the cemetery coastline.