Dear Departed,
Five ice-glazed trees keeled over
today. Did that racket disturb your
permanent faint? Sorry our pale
ministrations failed. Does mud hold
grudges? Don’t overthink your response,
once upright, diffident citizen. May we
address you directly? Can you tell if
you’re open or closed? Did god uncork
your mouth, roll a boulder from your
yawn? What’s the moment of rising like?
Did earth melt you down and chug you
like fortified wine? Thought or said,
your name sparks painful cravings lately:
to lick your pearl cufflinks, or singe
one’s fingers on that scalp sized brush-
fire formerly known as your hair. One
careless doctor cannot sunder us, buddy.
Tomorrow’s existence feels borrowed,
or bought with your dregs. Dumb as your
exit struck us, we bask in every mention
of your dispersed, weedy-meadow
self, perfected friend gone elemental.
– Amy Gerstler
from Coconut (I)
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