Oblivion

After Astor Piazzolla

I stand at the window in our kitchen,
watch as you cut peonies out back—
two days past the date of our son’s death.

We survived another year, numbed
our way through the day we never mark
on calendars. Somehow, we slipped

through its dark gate and into this late
afternoon in May, the glow
of our garden toil. Bouquet in hand,

you walk to the house. I listen
to Oblivión, let bass and bandoneón lace
the air of our circling, the dance

?we trace on the floor of fading years—
even as you sigh, even as you arrange
your flowers and weep before this small

thing of beauty, this one life that is ours.