In my head is a closed door—
It shut the day you died.
No longer opened by
a gentle knock, an unimpeded push inside
to encounter you
drinking mate at the table
a sideways grin, knitting needles
tapping out the rhythm
of your breath,
of the gold fleck in your eye.
In my dreams sometimes,
I visit you, lay my head upon your table,
snow falling outside
a black border collie exhausted at your feet.
But then I awaken and the door slams shut,
Whispers wither—¿Dónde estás , vos?
You fade like steam.
All that remains is the yerba mate gourd,
bitter leaves still damp,
a ball of raw wool
rolls under the table.