For Dave by Maria Giura

 

Image / Arina Krasnikova

For Dave

The picture of health

in our early twenties—

blonde, green-eyed, tall and lean.

Three months ago

diagnosed with lung cancer,

though you never smoked. 

We ran into each other

eight years ago

swimming in the Atlantic. 

We hadn’t seen each other 

in close to twenty years.

Ocean glistened your skin

as I told you I was writing a book,

that whenever I thought of you,

it was fondly. As you told me

about your siblings,  

that your son had his meets 

at the university where I taught.

I remember how numb 

I felt walking back to my towel—

the wave of what-ifs—

though I know we went the paths 

we were supposed to.

 

Everywhere we went, 

the air was clean:

Lambertville, New Hope,

High Point State Park, 

all places I’d never been before.

The two of us on your motorcycle, 

riding into light.  

You—who took over a month

to kiss me, told me

I was worth waiting for—

now gone. 

It’s not so surprising

you died young— 

the good sometimes do— 

that your kids were your life

or that you provided well for them,

not surprising you moved to Monmouth County

like so many our age.

I hope we’ll see each other again one day, 

that I’ll get to where you are,   

where no one marries

or is given in marriage,

where all live like angels

and the air is clean,

where work can’t harm a person, 

and the only thing that matters  

is how well he loved.

Published in If We Still Lived Where I Was Born by Maria Giura
Bordighera Press, New York November 2025. 

© Maria Giura

Maria Giura

Maria Giura, PhD, is the author of two poetry collections published by Bordighera Press—If We Still Lived Where I Was Born (Nov. 2025) and What My Father Taught Me—and a memoir, Celibate (Apprentice House Press). An Academy of American Poets winner, Giura teaches writing workshops for Casa Belvedere Cultural Foundation.  instagram.com/mariagiurawrites/   facebook.com/maria.giura.3975  mariagiura.com

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