Poems For The Lost

Intimate [April 2011]

Fluttering fingers:

my arms try for birdlike.

Failing, my feet pose, poised

In fourth position.

I choke

on caramel-coffee quips.

I do not have the timing.

There is beauty in his—


forgivable crassness. 

But I study far too hard.

It’s consolation

for a close-as-skin connection:

to imitate.

His kind cannot be caged.

They slip their shackles, 

soaring, charming, bright—


the connection farther and fainter—a growing distance

inversely related to a hope: to be as we once were.

I can save only a souvenir.

At least, consoling me, are

my arms—in pale shadow of his wings—

and feet, poised perfect in fourth position.

Accuse me of attempting a pale copy.  

Despairing, I knew only

to prepare for the sadly ineffable.
That he’ll leave is inevitable.


broken bridge [May 2011]

You let go, walked ahead, unmindful or
thinking, “She will manage.”
But most likely not thinking of me at all.
Taking my scars for granted,
you thought callouses were
bulletproof.  The truth is I’m more fragile now
than when this journey had begun.
There’s a hollow in my chest—
a black hole tearing without mercy.
I am nothing more now than
living dead.  I ask you:
How could you hope to build a bridge with
ties that were never binding,
bonds so easy to unravel?
It all looked so sturdy once: I had hoped to cross it.
From loneliness to something better—you had held my hand.
But now, I’m unsupported.  I return
to the loneliness, the other side.  Worse off now,
a lonely ghost, carries, inside my void
an infinite, redoubled pain of loss.



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