Poem 147

for a dear friend struggling with her young-voids, a poem for inspiration, or perhaps just proof that we are all the same.

selfmedicated

Maybe for a long while—

a sense of waiting, of bone loss

of time on lines running through our bodies

together rolling on a wild hushed open

I had hopes of closure before…

the long wide brush which cups the desert

and makes us whole. It’s never too soon to ration

our matches. Never too early to siphon our love.

I had known of secret rituals—bringing back the dead

young lies we knew so helplessly wrong,

and yet, some other afterlife

was always better-still

—ECW

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