There was no raised
plaque.

Rituals of resuscitation
had failed. Something to lift
from your paintings. I wanted
everything of you.

Not touching the
death cookies. I prepare myself
to witness the―
bread breaking.

There were no tears,
no pangs. No agony.
Peace.

Was it true that you
were no more you
whom I gave my vision―
my lungs, my pen.

Were you jinxed?
I would never know.