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Literature Text
I didn't know her.
I tried so hard to give up something
that this woman never took for granted
and somehow had stolen from her.
I tried five times, and it only took her once,
accidentally,
doing something she loved.
If we lock eyes in eternal rest,
I can't blame her if she punches me out.
Form a line, beautiful dead.
My four year-old neighbor, caught in headlights,
my classmate ejected from the windshield,
you, posthumously known friend of a friend,
static in the snow.
I would wear them,
weighted by the knowledge
that your unchosen ends
left no option for notes.
I tried so hard to give up something
that this woman never took for granted
and somehow had stolen from her.
I tried five times, and it only took her once,
accidentally,
doing something she loved.
If we lock eyes in eternal rest,
I can't blame her if she punches me out.
Form a line, beautiful dead.
My four year-old neighbor, caught in headlights,
my classmate ejected from the windshield,
you, posthumously known friend of a friend,
static in the snow.
I would wear them,
weighted by the knowledge
that your unchosen ends
left no option for notes.
Literature
and even so, you stayed
I taste rain on your lips
and I know you’ve been
writing poetry again.
I breathe into the touch
of your fingers
cascading in a soft scale
down the cage of bones
around my heartbeat.
you kiss me
knowing
the colors that drift
in my mind
like water beneath
all the bridges that were
burned for me
and you stay.
Literature
sweaterse
when you've a love
in repose,
all quiets
are woven together.
all worries and
worships and
weathering
kept, cared,
covered.
every summer
warms, every winter
draws closer.
and the silences
sweeter than
heaven.
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
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Comments8
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This is wonderfully written & executed beautifully.