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Comfort

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A few days after Ginny dies,

her boyfriend and I walk

through Washington Square Park,

past the skateboarders and weed clouds

and dogs, past the dried up fountain

because it is not quite spring,

and as we approach the big, white archway,

he reaches for my hand

with an intimacy that feels natural,

like any two people in this moment

could only be doing exactly this,

and I experience so many things at once —

a sense of dislocation, like the I

who is walking through the park today

should be my dead friend, and like my hand

is her hand, and like he and I are not

holding each other’s hands,

but are in fact holding hers.

This is how we walk through the rest of the park,

and when we reach the edge, we just let go.

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