Poetica Hiaticus Soberum (A Sobering Hiatus from Poetry)

Used to wake waiting to hear her voice console
the dead a few years piled, to translate ghosts
to native tongues.  They come carrying trinkets
of what’s been lost & she their guide reminded

the landmarks of their lives.  Then we lost touch.
Dead in broken sentences fumble some remembered
moment but without her perfect ear for emphasis
their words fizz & whirr like static.  I’ve lied to you.

Last autumn we broke our deal, broke from singing
she allowed so casual, like a lover who steps nude
from the bathroom without giving one startled glance.
She left knowing my mind isn’t wise enough to learn

the brutal language of the dead.  She knows I love her.
Two years pass as silent punishment.  She doesn’t care.


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Filed under munsterman, poem a day

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