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I gave him the plate that I made--the clay that I
Smoothed wrong.
As the artist, I fired it like a master,
Painted it like a saint--but I got it wrong.
My biggest fan said
He could faint.
How disappointed was he--my type-writer-love
The white carnations of our wedding melted like snow
In the blasted coffee
In the aghasted coffee
That scorned it's very existence as much as he.
He who, give or take a few,
Blew many kisses my way--even so I fired that
Mischievous plate--and I gave it to him
And I made him disgusting coffee
As well
That day.
She blames the coffee and the plate for her problems.
 Jun 2014 Margaryta
Three can keep a secret
                                                                                         if two of them are dead

I'll bury all the bodies
                                                                                    to keep these words unsaid
Dislocated fingers

mold figures in the dust

on old photographs, discolored

by setting suns

Their edges melt; dripping memories

that burn your knuckles

until you open your fists

and he slips from your hands.

like a film, unwinding

into fragmentary pictures

in your mind,

the only place he still exists
 Jun 2014 Margaryta
Tom Leveille
while september cicadas
were singing my neighbors to sleep
i was up walking holes in my shoes
over love once lost
so many poems ago
that the only thing i remember
about the house at 38th & bluestone
is that it reeked of alcohol and is
as i'm sure of it
still saturated in perfume
and abandoned laughter
but that's not the point
give me a minute
what i'm trying to say
is i always thought god
enjoyed watching things leave me
it makes me wonder
what was on his mind
that night in september
when i stooped to cough
or tie my shoelaces
i no longer remember why
but i recall their trajectory
the way gravity cradled my hands
and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747
they landed inches away
from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf
folded in half like the smiles
of my relatives on a holiday truce
you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper
i find myself checking the obituary
for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter
maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history
maybe archeology is just a funeral
in reverse
maybe hell is just rewinding home movies
or watching confetti
turn back into photographs
i never told anyone
the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid
i will take my life
but because sometimes
i sing them birthday songs
on the day you died
it makes me think
of how rooms only echo
when they are empty

*you know
i never echoed until you died
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