Want to Say

Suzanne Roberts

In memory of Greg Smith

She says, eyes blue with water,
everything we love—every
person, pet, and thing, gone
in a hundred years, or fewer.
I want to say she’s right, want
to say, death is a doorway,
memory’s everlastings.
But say nothing. Want to say
death is Rilke’s swan,
the condescending glide
from sky to sea, the necessary
flight into the watery reflection
of an August, storm-cracked sky.