Chloe
when no one answers your phone
calls,
when the rain is dripping on the
pitched roof of your home
when you canft stand one more
thought about the absence
they are all sleeping
the way your daughter does in
her bed now
and what is left of your ragged
breathing
is a poem you may never write
I wonder if that is what
happened to her
my friend alone in the crypt of
her apartment
saying good night to the moon,
blowing out the last candle
on her night stand
did she hum softly to a Celtic
drum?
did her hair cascade across her
bare shoulders, the milky white
of her neck
what last bone broke inside of
her?
was it the rib?
was it the third phone call that
fell on deaf ears?
how did she stumble into this
fate?
I have dreamt her solace before
held it close like a numb knife
to my neck
imagined I might
in the shower
the closet
alone in the cushion of my bed
lick the salt of loneliness
and curl around my shoulder
blades
one last heaving time
men will walk away from this
perfect sadness
leave their unused boxes in the
corner of a room
dust in the shape of a coffin
where his favorite couch stood
now removed, a letter like a
bomb on the kitchen table
for a mother and her little
daughter to grope at, wipe
confused cheeks against their
tears ?
how they glimmer
this is a summer of loss, cruel
sunshine illuminates
every perceptible corner of your
grief
we cannot hide from it
we must stare into eyes like
mannequins
and realize they are our own
we will sing a dirty limerick
a drunken brawl song and wail
away the dead
we will burn this house
say goodnight moon
spit the smoke from our mouths
and crush the last cigarette
with our bare feet
the poets will have their say,
they will
inhale the pain
and a brief candle
will exhale
for good
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