for Jane Kenyon
What can I name my grief, again, today? A nickel frozen in the sidewalk? A tumbling paper bag? Where can I go, again and again, that I cannot smell the stubble of your cheek, or trace the curl of your thumb against my breast? You play with me thoughtlessly like an old band-aid. In this city I can walk for thirty blocks. The air feels like cold tar soup. Once in a while, I pass a tree. It only shares that you’re not here. April 7, 2019, City Lights Bookstore, San Francisco.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Star Dylan “Chris” Moran
Immortal poetry, every time I read her words they are powerful as the first time! Thank you for sharing her poetry.
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