Dear Sylvia

Such a tragic masterpiece-
you crouching by the oven,
drinking in the poisonous air.
I found you there,
but much too late.
Thirty-two years too late.

But the distance doesn't stop me
from crying,
from wishing we had been best friends.
And I could've pulled you up.

But no.
You felt like a star pinned to the sky-
burning-
couldn't pull away from the heat.

God had not given me life
when you died there,
but I found you, nonetheless
and I cried as if
you were my own mother.

Your grave sits cold now
and if I ever decide to visit,
I'll lay out some milk,
just in case
you decide to wake up.