A Trick for Finding What You’ve Lost
There is something wrong with me. Today I read a poem.
At the top it said
For Trish and automatically, I assumed
that Trish was somewhere below
exactly six feet of dirt. Either that or in an urn,
or perhaps scattered over some mountain or the Pacific Ocean
or the corner of Broward and Andrews. I assumed Trish was dead, because I write poems for dead people.
I write poems about dead things. And there has to be something
wrong with me. Because it didn’t occur to me that Trish might be alive.
Because it didn’t cross my mind that you could write a poem
about something with a heartbeat.
LITERARY-ARTS MAGAZINE | 97
