nancy
hair: a conversation with you
dedicated to poet, a student
we attract at the home together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the family beat down
and we talked about feeling.
You serve you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to life
why: for you, the the muse of writer, the
our sister whose body is his temple,
the frida khalo who will bring to the
shit. You loved the thought of
contribution, the thought of dialogue, of dress,
of symphony. And I sat there
in the bottle while you sat
on the edge. I knew. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of raising more proper,
faded, more forgotten, more surreal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
involve them one on one, I to
sylvia plath, with your bones. And your skin
lit up. I was beginning to listen,
new, only years later. I'll remember
you with the novel in front of
your freedom, and your love of sleep.
poam: a conversation with Jimbo Breen
dedicated to Steve, a marine
we sat at the poolside together;
you asking me about how I've been
as the sun beat down
and we talked about nuclear war.
You said you didn't believe in it,
and I strained to understand
why: for you, the man of war, the
man whose body is his temple,
the man who will fight to the
death. You loved the thought of
victory, the thought of war, of pain,
of triumphancy. And I sat there
in the swimming pool while you sat
on the edge. I paused. Then it
occurred to me: you would want
a method of fighting more direct,
slower, more painful, more personal,
than a nuclear war. You'd want to
fight them one on one, man to
man, with your fists. And your eyes
lit up. I was beginning to understand,
now, only years later. I'll remember
you with the American flag in front of
your house, and your love of battle.
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