the sound it made
when it hit the floor—
like the lifeless thud
of a fumbled potato?

the way it used to dance
and sing, weightless as ashen
embers, all through the night?

how it rised and crashed,
smashed and bleated, soaked
in pinot noir,
dripping a trail later
mistaken for murder?

where it moved on its own
accord, a quarter square inch
deeper into the small
vastness called your chest?

when it stopped and started,
a divine mystery of electricity
and flesh, a charged meat muscle
that would make Tesla
and Edison join forces?

how it looked on that
rainy morning, clad
in its great-grandmother’s
moth-nipped wedding gown
and a rubber slicker, thin
shoes through puddles,
splashing its way along?

the way it tasted, of ancient
ferns and a hint of honey,
all set to be the secret ingredient
your friends squabble over
yet cannot figure out, in the
as-close-to-perfect-without-
claiming-to-be-perfect autumn stew?

why it was homeless for
two years too long—which
means it was homeless for
two years—yet, still often
questions, if it isn’t?

the way it smelled like hot
wax, melting away, changing
forms, dissipating into
some other realm we can
never seem to sense?

and how it felt, like ten tons
of corroded stone
when it fell from your torso,
taken by gravity, an old
growing bowling ball,
too heavy to hold
so it drops through your
ribcage with a lifeless thud,
like a fumbled potato—

can you recall
the sound it made
when it hit the floor?