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Jennifer Barber-V

After a Year



Is it an extravagance, this grief?


Is it clean, is it purely itself?


Would I feel it less if he’d been


ready after the treatments


or if he hadn’t written in the black-and-white


speckled notebook I bought him,


‘Nothing else to try…how, when?’


What if he had dreamed


death as light on a window sill,


shorebirds running at a wave?