Hours After News of the Death,

I lay in bed with a man I’ve
just met, who has just been inside
me for the first time in—hell, months—

he has stopped holding my wrist, later whispers
the French version of the orgasm,

and I laugh
thinking of how I now feel as relaxed
as the drug that killed who lived doors down from here—
the agent of overdose.

I imagine that the dead
have eyes glazed over
like summer rain.

When I take a shower later,
I study the water clinging to the shower tiles,
watching it struggle to stay upright

before succumbing to the drain.

Steam, like other ghosts,
wails just before you siphon it.