Like the bell of an old Victrola,
white for the wedding my daughter skipped
last summer, you open as if to mock
my closed days. Perched on table and plate
of the departed, lace scavenged
from the marital home, you rise
above the Bose Wave, lower shelf:
morning jazz, afternoon classical.
I used to prefer silence
when you were here, obliging my
need with earphones, the quiet kiss.
At midday I walk the cemetery
grounds—the only silence I can
bear, since you are there.