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The Dead
I know two things about the dead,
they’re dead
and of no use to anyone but strangers
who say a prayer
and turn them inside out.
Telepathy
Where’s he living,
is he still alive,
would I even like him if he is,
why do I keep thinking of him suddenly,
telepathy,
how does that work,
let’s be honest
he was never handsome
but he was mine
and nothing if not kind,
why don’t I just send him a card,
find out where he lives
and send a card,
nothing heavy,
just a simple card,
a cat, a jug, something like that,
and no, I’d never say this in the card,
but maybe it’s his absence I’m in love with,
in which his presence is beatified,
aloof, serene, adored
and platinum blond.
From Women in Comfortable Shoes, Bloodaxe Books, 2023
Poetry submissions to [email protected]