To be sure, the numbers change.
One by one they leave us.
The whole lot in every photo
used to live right here,
if by right here we mean the earth

as opposed to what we vaguely call
the other side, beyond the veil,
or consciousness or something else.

We make our best guesses
take shape in gods. Meanwhile,
as mourners at the wake, we murmur
platitudes like closure and healing
and letting go.

In truth, the absence sets up house
just beneath the ribs—and stays.
Feel for it in a year or two,
shortly before the next aunt leaves:
there it is, dark matter in your gut,
becoming vivid as the photo fades.

To be sure, the numbers change.
One by one they join us.
The whole lot in every photo
used to live right there,
if by right there we mean the realm

they might call the other side
in oh-so-breathless wonder
if they were here like us.

Bah. It’s all about place with them,
for God’s sake. Take the thought
of letting go: go where?
Or passing over—to where we are now?
Which is…?

And don’t get me started
on the whole absence thing.
How do they know that empty gut
isn’t more presence than they ever knew
before the face in the fading photo
was the only scrap they had?