When you died, you took the bugs and the music
and the ghosts. Nobody told me
you could do that.

Mom said, after you died, that we could pray to you.

So: Dear Dad. Come back.
And bring everything back with you.

But if you can’t come back, keep the singing
things. The stinging things.

In this new, you-less world, I like the street sign
that reads Tally Ho. I like what rushes
past my car window: House. House.

Shimmer-field. The long pull of black taffy

road before me. I like the plump, dovey,
gray-pink birds floating like huggable sunsets

on the pond. I’m easily pleased. Even
in this wide quiet. Even with my windows

shut. At least there are windows. Maybe someday
the songs will come slinking

back with a terrible buzzing sweetness. With a sound
that makes me taste my own finger, expecting honey.