Hp told me I could write about this, so I will. I will write another sad poem about sad things, and that is okay. It is one hundred percent okay for me to write sad poems about my missing friends.
Here is a poem for tonight:
What parts would you hold?
What joints and sinews would you count as yours?
Which, exactly, which pieces would you count in the measuring?
When did you ever show up with a tape measure? Only always,
in the lengths that counted. Sometimes, measured in stitches of satin wrapped around and around and around,
sometimes do you wonder about the parts you would hold in case of the brutal accident? Don’t you ever worry about the the parts of us to which we might cling,
and don’t you pace when you care alone, back and forth on the back deck?
Take hold of the crocheted heart square
Hold it, and take it like a the piece of this afghan here, take hold of this square like it gets to have a say in your life,
go ahead and get lost by minutes and feel like getting lost in these dark woods every second. What parts of this life would you like to hold or touch?
What have we made that might be leftovers, leftovers, leftovers.
The phone repair guy was here. Our phone and internet are fixed. I kind of like it broken. Happy tuesday, poem friends.