when I rewrite it. This line was buried in the middle. I think it is an
exit.
I told the bee gurl I
would post another poem for her. Here are
two.
Transit
I
would like to have space between
my back and
the door.
How I envied those who
closed
such distances lightly,
before.
My pockets drag with old
coins,
not one worth a
sweet.
I have folded years of small
fears
in the suitcase at my
feet.
It is important to depart
as I have only
rehearsed.
Here I stand with your blood on my
hands.
It?s like joy, only
worse.
Birthday
(Aimee:
in your memory)
I have kept one
picture of us,
where you and I
look
almost lost to the
sea.
We are on a
promontory
(how you would have teased
me
for that
word),
my arms shadowing your
shoulders,
our smiles wider, it
seemed,
than the
world.
The horizon bends my
back.
Silence, absence,
its litany of difficult
gifts.
Today I am older than
you
will ever
be.
In your wake I pray
for
something to stand
on,
or unforgivably
drown.