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Writing Letters to the Dead
by Meghan HelmichThis is difficult
To know you've no defense behind that ether.
What remains to guard, to be seen?
How do intangible hands cover ringing ears?
If I pretend you've been following along
All these years, there would be nothing to say.
Apparent only that I carry more weight
In regret than blood.
And here, asking questions in a letter,
How would you have done things differently?
Expecting clarity or freedom
From the soft clay of which I'm formed.
Your involvement only in references;
Piano melodies, throaty coughing.
Growing up and dying down
With only thin walls between the two.
Letter does not mean correspondence.
It leans closer to blood-letting
The poison that escaped the first edit,
The grit between the greeting and goodbye.
I did not dream of writing dead letters
on Christmas eves in Birmingham.
Dear, Wish you were here.
PS, Wish I was there. 12/07/2010 Author's Note: Second draft...first poem in what must be at least a year, if not longer.
Posted on 12/07/2010
Copyright © 2025 Meghan Helmich
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Curtis Sethaler on 12/08/10 at 01:15 AM Meghan, this is amazing! By far the the best thing I have read in a very long time. Instantly one of my favorites! |
| Posted by D. James McKee on 12/09/10 at 06:42 PM Haunting, gritty, ephemeral, sad, lovely, loving, melancholy, real, candid, subtle and blunt, what an amazing poem Meghan. “It leans closer to blood-letting” Wow! This is the first poem to give me goosebumps for a long long while. Well done!
P.S. I'm so glad you're “here” and not “there”. There is a distinct shortage of good poets here and you are remarkable. |
| Posted by Ariane Scott on 08/10/11 at 02:30 PM This is fresh-wound raw with a haunting tone-- the last two stanzas in particular stay with me. Interesting, creative and powerful write. |
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