within a group of mutual friends

all milling around. The room

with white floor has no walls.

Her husband and son stand nearby.

He walks right up to her,

broad-faced, bright and sweet-

smiling as ever, beard neatly trimmed,

teeth white as hope.

With no explanation of why

he’s suddenly returned from the dead,

he opens his arms, his eyes speak clearly

before his voice follows with,

“I love you,” and he embraces her.

Her startled arms encircle

his shoulders as she answers, “I love you,”

wondering how he’d managed the journey

and what others are thinking of

his inexplicable resurrection.

The simplicity of it.

She doesn’t have time to ask if he cared

about the poem she’d written – the one

about his disappearance

into death. He falls back

into the crowd, lost ever again

behind faces still living.

Her husband, her son – at left, at right.

One hand holding her hand,

one hand gently pressing

her shoulder.

Eyes, deepest lakes.

Their gazes flood as murmurs

envelope, her thoughts left to flounder

on beaches of waking.

© Copyright 2005 Susan M. Botich