the sun sets after the eclipse (death xii.)

sometimes i think my girlfriend is my mother
when i wake up and catch her sleeping.
similar noses. for a second i see the morning sun
reflecting off my mother's face, producing light
the same way the moon does
i remember one night swapping a plastic cup of bourbon--
hours spent on needles and spots,
her life's black moons.
i almost fell asleep in her bed
then, afraid and heavy with the burden 
of this soft memoir

outside looking up
the moon rolling over the sun like a rock,
draining the color of everything
i am banging my fists on the dirt
crying to the dark mouth

the ancient piece of my soul begging an offering
to this absence--the two packets of oatmeal
we find later on the cemetery bench,
left as quiet presents to the dead