Let me tell you about the day Joan died.

​

 

It was calm. Quiet.

 

Wet. 

 

Fat droplets slid down glass. Foggy friends spun around. 

 

Little red boat. 

 

Joan. Roam. 

 

Joan roamed. 

 

Too far.                             Disappeared into the ocean.

 

Joan always loved fish. 

 

Now she’s with them forever.

 

We search. We scream. 

​

The lighthouse burns through the water.

 

The cold slices through skin.

 

Where is Joan? 

    

 Unknown. 

 

We go home. 

 

With no Joan. 

 

There is no body to bury.

 

An empty slab of black mahogany is suffocated with dirt.

 

Everything is black. Gray. Dark. 

 

Pain. 

 

I wear a nice dress. Nice shoes. 

 

 

Nice. Everything is nice. 

​

There are tears. We are given caresses and casseroles.

     

It will be okay.

​
 

I see the raw skin on my mother’s face. Torn. 

​

 

She’s had another fit. She likes to claw things. 

 

Herself mainly. 

 

Father always liked a drink or two.

 

Now he needs them. 

 

Expensive wine. 

 

Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot. Rich red confidants.

 

Dr. Flask looks at me through thin, sharp glasses.

 

He holds a notepad.

 Taps a pen.

 

Waits for me to open my mouth.

 

One word. 

The ink flows forth.

 

He loves giving out fancy diagnoses. 

 

I examine the wall of degrees behind him. 

 

He remains a charlatan dressed in unsightly tweed.

 

I don’t tell him what I think about at night. I don’t tell anyone.

 

That I think about Joan. 

   

About her bones. 

 

At school they stare. 

 

Whispers trail me. I don’t let their chains show. 

 

There is a rumor.

 

Joan drowned herself. 

 

I don’t answer when they ask me. Because I don’t want to know. 

 

Joan. Foam.

 

Joan swallows seafoam. 

 

 

I see Joan around the house. Sometimes I wave. 

​

 

I follow this Joan.

Clone?

 

Swathed in opaline darkness. 

We are bound. 

 

I follow this Joan. 

 

Our words are silence. 

We understand. 

 

I follow this Joan. 

 

We are familiar strangers.

      We feel without feeling. 

 

I follow this Joan. 

 

For a second. A day. A month. A year. 

                                     

Or two? 

 

I must find the courage. 

To ask. One day. My question. 

 

So one night. 

I do. 

 

I breathe her name to life. 

And she turns. 

 

I ask: 

 

Joan. Go. 

 

“Joan, why did you go?” 

 

She smiles and shrugs. 

 

I do not cry. 

 

I turn away. 

 

Sorry Joan,

you’re on your own.