A Drink with Estha
In Turtle Bay, we share dark beer
in slender glasses and toast the dead—
a fedora on a stool, spiked tickets,
a menu with yesterday’s specials.
Bodies and the ghosts of bodies shake
their umbrellas dry in the entryway,
and though the bartender yells,
the door never closes. Anyone
is bound to walk in. A bell rings.
Your face fades, blurs, as if in a photo.
Even as we raise our glasses,
I am already remembering you.