sure there are things i miss

the color of sky in anchorage at midnight
the eyes of a girl i never quite met
the forgotten sound of my mother’s voice

none of it was gravity enough
to hold me in place
and so i wandered among you
straddling two worlds on the razor’s edge
of my own incomplete sanity

i fell often, cut and bleeding
through the fabric of a shroud
no one else could see

this wasn’t my decision
it was my destiny
and no amount of fighting
kept me whole

the whisper howl of the wind in a pine dressed forest
the warm slide of good whiskey down a life-parched throat
the crackle of a fire lighting words on a page

i was cold and silent night
played loud on the radio
in a room arranged to be
my last companion

i grew up in a house
the color of empty
raised by ghosts of worn out intention

i laughed like a child
until i was thirty
and then i started leaving in a circle of return
all the things i never had
packed into tattered pockets

the call of a loon on a star scattered lake
the warmth on my skin of a sun gone to silver
the weightless cry of a hawk soaring through hunger

one saved letter pressed tight
against the thump
of my own flawed heart

proof of existence
in a shadow
shaped by please




Linking in over at dVersePoets for Poetics today,
where Grace has us writing poems from the perspective of the dead.





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