And so,

You died, and so
I can never beat my fists
to your stomach.

You died, and so,
I can never tell you
all those words and words,
grown stale and moldy.

It was so like
leaving again,
on the tenth anniversary
of the first time.

It is not so different
for the hand to take
the blade across
than to dial a number.

or to write out a letter.
I told my wrists this many a time,
and now they are useless tools.
And so, you are dead.

My memories are even a bit stolen now,
and so, you were like a father,
but so what, because you are dead,
so there will be no father talk
between you and me now.

So, you are dead,
you thought the leaving and leaving
wasn’t permanent enough,
so, you thought you would leave
someone new for once.

Not the same women and daughters and
small sons, so you took leave of yourself
For the first time a new feeling.
So, now, there will be no talk,
no sobbing letters.

And so, we will never brush
shoulders, in a crowd, I will never
look up to see your graying mustache and
dark green eyes.

And so, I will never say; and
weren’t you a stand in for my father?
and didn’t you get tired of the role
and run away?

So, you chose to die,
I can’t picture it, the bottle
to the mustache, the blade
in your hand.

No, I suppose I can,
and you selfishly took
all those moments and dreams
and dreams and dreams,
so many I dreamt in a decade.

Why would you steal them
Just like that, just like you stole
yourself from me before.


I can picture it, the hand placed
upon the blade, so like a telephone
so like a pen, writing this letter,
speaking this poem into our ears.