I'm too tired to find the stairs that lead to heaven. Still,

I think I'm doing okay. Still

steeped in lavender, l miss you still,

the morning dew on your shoulder blades and, still,

the spilled rum on the carpet, the soft yawn of the sun still

stepping over its own sighs, as I reach across the bed to taste the stale, still

mint from your tongue while somewhere, a town grows so still

it will never wake again. Don't worry, I promise this is a love poem. Still,

the chyron at the bottom of the television screen still

reads BREAKING NEWS as weeks later, bombs still

keep stealing kisses from buildings. I hear Jesus wept, but I'm pretty sure he's still

weeping. I promise this really is a love poem. Still,

I never forget to count the bullet casings still

scattered along the linoleum floor of the produce section of Kroger. Still,

I miss you so much, it's stupid. Still,

My dad was dying and then he was dead. Still,

my sister, the same. So, if I grow too quiet to be still,

please tell my daughter that sometimes a door is still

a door, and sometimes a backpack is still

a backpack, just with a bulletproof spine. Tell her, still,

sometimes all you can do is duck and be still.

Tell her my favorite history lesson still

hasn't been written, and that after everything, sometimes there is still

nothing else to say except help, please help, as I tell you yes, this is still

a love poem.