THE YEAR WITH NO AUGUST

I’ve never seen a blue whale or been to Hawaii
no fat magnificent beast has ever breached before me
in warning but I have loved you
and that, I know beyond anything, is no different.
We ate saltfish during that first September
and the entire summer we were high, sweetness and rosemary
chicken grease. I sucked it off your fingers.
But this is the year with no August
It just slipped between the cracks and I was out 
swimming, clambering over rocks on Fogo Island 
chunky and sticky as a child 
and since it didn’t happen I didn’t spread my fathers ashes they vanished in that valley
It’s the only thing I wanted to reclaim from purgatory, that incessant waiting
Now I think this might be better. What we reclaim we have to compost.
We twist words to make it hurt less. 
August is the worst month anyways, nobody likes august, clammy and perpetuating
So we twist that too
We think sacrifice is love 
We think we can trade things
Here. Take the 8th 31 days. Such a small, passive protest.
But I wanted something with meat. A real offering.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been killing things in my sleep
two weeks ago it was a crow: she dove into the water plunging to spread her weird curse upon the world and I did not hesitate I followed and pinned her down and slit her throat and swam to the surface and ripped her head off with my hands
I laid it down as my prize 
and still august was gone
still you were gone.
We do not choose what to remember and what to forget. 
Sometimes I wake in the night from a dream where someone I love has choked me in frenzied convulsing anger but it’s this that wakes me;
it is this that guts me; my father is dead. I do not have a father.
I wonder why there is no loud warning sign of danger 
like that steadfast leviathan, that great and kind dragon of the sea
who doesn’t think of divine purpose, not like I do, at least.
When I’m making meaning out of leftovers he is the body of Christ
He is the quintessential referent.
There’s a line that runs from my dress to the grave
the end of it like the point of a needle
toward words that pound like thunder in my head:
EVEN THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH, I WILL FEAR NO EVIL
I want to go back to the day he died I want to mourn longer
I want to go back to the day my heart broke I want to mourn longer 
My infallible joy is a burden my love for life is consuming and 
I
Want
To
Mourn
Longer