No Need to Label

I only wear long sleeves now,  

because when strangers point to your name  

on my arm, they ask, "Who's that?"  

I say, "My dead best friend."  

For lack of a better word.  

I've tried companion, confidant, partner,  

heart, soul—  

none of these fit.  

I could try another language—  

compadre, chica, comrade—  

but none are the truth.  

What word could capture  

how I feel you speaking from the marrow  

in my bones, how you gently squeeze  

my kidneys, reminding me to drink,  

and how your spirit possesses my body  

with quiet strength when I'm scared?  

I’ll leave it as silence,  between good friends, 

keep my arms covered, so no one asks, 

and I don’t try to explain—  

She is surviving a lightning strike

to the head, once-in-a-lifetime jolt,

that no one else could ever grasp,

so I spend the rest of my life chasing

the memory, hoping to feel it again.