There were 42 pieces of him I found;
a jigsaw of flesh to solve
piece into piece, or a crazyquilt
trimmed and stitched exactly
into his pattern.
It takes audacity to reassemble a god
from what’s dead, and the assurance
only goddesses can own, to lean so heavy
on the trust that I recovered
the singular fragment of his heart
that held memory in one fiber;
our love, electric and driving,
now cold and dry under linen,
our last forensic secret,
Waiting for hope to animate it again.