February 17th, 2023
9th Iteration
Dedicated to my beloved husband, Floyd Russell Taylor
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Poem
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Since you died, as if you were a god,
Say, a Zeus,
You visit and put on a guise:
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At first, a petal from a blossoming tree,
You landed in my hand
While you whispered in my ear: “See.”
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Then, after I returned to our casita at the solstice,
You dove into the courtyard as a dove,
Perched on the arch that leads to our door.
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You were silent, your presence the message.
You perched there all afternoon
Lest I miss your point.
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Finally (finally?), two years later in Indian summer,
Slouched on the couch
Tired from too my happiness,
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I thought, “Life was better still with Russ.”
My mind perceived you near.
As if you were swimming a pond as a swan
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And I proffered a crumb, you partook of it
By whispering, “Yes. Yes it was.”
What am I to make of you, of me, our altered states.
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Do not be deluded, his death is an illusion.
We are more than the sum of our limbs.
If Russ is a spirit,
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Read what you have limned in these poems.
They are you as a spirit.
Commune, for communion is marriage, just as before.
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Coda
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You closed your hand on his petal, a peace offering.
You entered under the sign of his dove and knew peace.
(And again sensed love where you had loved).
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You welcomed his swan. They only come in peace,
In response to your happiness,
and rarely to your grief.
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Russ, you were always my god in disguise.
Beguiled,
Soon I’ll become your incurable sleuth.
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Steven Golden
February 14th to 15th, 2026
Green Valley, Arizona
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