For R

When I am dead, I will still be your lamb, still listening for your bleating.

In your bed, when you are jolted awake by the usual neighbors, police cars,

I will finally move toward you, undefended, I will be headlights in the dark.

By your bed, I will be the green light, always on, faxing from your faulty heart.

In the morning, I will be the car that drives you to the creek, the bench,

where you watch walkers, not lambs, move across a steel bridge, sturdy.

If you are holding a book, and you will be, it will be The Sparrow.

I will be the alien I refused to read about in life.  I couldn’t give you that.

Instead, I wanted to move back, into black and white, the pewter pitcher,

a pigeon  on the  bowler hat.

I promise you, I will be the other, the one you long to talk to.