Even the Cracks

I don’t miss his wit, nor his slightly chipped
front tooth, his 1965 Volvo 122,
which he called his Vulva, nor his 1969
Triumph Bonneville. I’ll be fine without the
upturned horseshoe over his front door,
saltwater fish tank’s glow-in-the-dark coral,
the Venus in a Half Shell mosaic floor he
started in his front hall, then gave up
on after setting the face, the blue eyes
and pouting lips he avoided stepping
on out of respect and made me do the same.
He moved me into and out of two
marriages, once in the middle of the
night, and liked me not as some extension of
himself, but wanted to see me grow into
who I might become in spite of those
mistakes he called moments of
enlightenment, going backward not an option,
moving forward impossible,
scooting sideways better than staying where
I was, what he called my crab consciousness,
merely his description for my either avoiding or digging
a hole, coming out when all was safe
like a ghost would. I hear him even louder
than this ringing in my ears, a sound he labeled
an attempt by enlightened beings
to communicate with me truths I do
not want to hear, spirits invisible to me in
the shower but who know my every
move and forgive me when I stray,
who don’t judge me because the kind of
judging we do in three dimensions is impossible
without a body, and this is all the body I’ll
ever get, he said, so make sure I
visit every inch, even the cracks.