You make me laugh from the grave.
Oh, poo poo on this; a great big heron
has landed on my umbrella.
Two miles from the Cliffs of Moher
I sing every song you taught me.
Oh poo poo on these thoughts.
I'm a doormat for Lady Grief.
I've gathered dozens of poetry books
to help me forget writing about you
but one talks of chocolate eclairs,
one talks of a rainy country,
a stained glass window of St. Francis of Assisi ,
the month of November never being benign again.
All the poets in the contemporary world
write about you without knowing it.
Your ring on my middle finger cuts into my skin,
the tiger eye bracelet is a little too small,
but I wear its snugness nonetheless.
My lot in life is to now decipher your sky speech,
what certain songs mean when they come on the radio.
Did you broadcast them from beyond the beyond?
I glance up and see a man stare
out into the distance with tears in his eyes.
I think, did you know her too?

12/15/2006

Posted on 12/15/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky