motion sickness
strange,
that the world above me
can be so blindingly blue that it is
almost a sunshiny white
that the leaves between it and me
are transparent, filtering the light
warm green that glows around me
that beauty and rightness can exist
when you do not
that the cut-grass canvas under my
bare legs and strewn hair
can smell so real, be so itchy soft
that I could drift into years when you
were alive but I didn't know it
that I never knew you
until you were almost gone
strange,
that the air can smell so much like
the ocean when we are so far from it
that I can feel so alive when you are dead
rushing by the world that delights and
terrifies me, wanting to stop and see it
all, not wanting to stop even to breathe
that my heart physically constricts
when I hear certain songs
that my laughter can be interrupted by
a stray thought of you, stubbornly existing
even though you do not
that I can ever look in a mirror and like
what I see
strange,
that I plunge into water that is cool on my
sun-warmed skin and smiling face
that these people surrounding me really
seem to want me around
that I can fight my way through endless
wind-whipped shadowy sunny lake water
and emerge dripping and trembling
on the other side
that my connection to you is horrifyingly
fading like the dark October when I lost you
that stinging nettles left welts on my arms
that little buds are appearing in the grass
that the roads and fields are my friends
that anything could be so beautiful
when your death is so ugly.
