Emma

The latest in a series of sicknesses
and needs – I haven’t yet seen your ghost
or felt so much as a breeze
it could be said – you are at peace
and I haven’t written about you
in three months. How could I?

I missed your death, and I never
spent a second at your bedside
bright lights and empty glasses
your tubes and your tank, they made
me uncomfortable, they made
me think of the inevitable

When I heard the news the sun
came pouring through
I spent the day on a golf resort
and I browsed the shelves at Walmart
only to feel the floodgates open

When your death sank into me
I was with the white sands and the palm trees
I went to Bayside and spent a day on South Beach
where I cried constantly
and I said nothing but “she is twenty”
– she was
She was

If I didn’t repeat it I wouldn’t believe
and it took twenty years to cultivate
a smile and an aura that you shared
for two months. Two months.
Repetition was the key to understanding
and I hope you know I think of you often
even when I try not to

I haven’t felt your ghost, I haven’t seen you
superstition never occurred to me,
and I missed your only funeral
I attended your memorial and I thought,
often – we could have been such good friends

I haven’t written about you for three months
because it isn’t fitting, it’s difficult, it’s disrespectful
to take your family’s agony for my own needs
but you never cared much for that stuff, anyway
for decorum, prim and proper – for elegance

Only twenty – repetition is the key

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Filed under Personal, Poetry

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