remember that when
your wavering soul
catches fire
for the second
or hundredth
time

when you call on me
once more
misery boiling over
a cascade of every
decision, you
never made

i will not be there
you are alone

Some flowers don’t get picked
They stand alone
At the edge of the field
Shaded politely for too long
Waiting for the rain


© MJL 2021

Death is not the final word.
Without ears, my father still listens,
still shrugs his shoulders
whenever I ask a question he doesn't want to answer.

I stand at the closet door, my hand on the ****,
my hip leaning against the frame and ask him
what does he think about the war in Iraq
and how does he feel about his oldest daughter
getting married to a man she met on the Internet.

Without eyes, my father still looks around.
He sees what I am trying to do, sees that I
have grown less passive with his passing,
understands my need for answers only he can provide.

I imagine him drawing a breath, sensing
his lungs once again filling with air, his thoughts ballooning.

1349

I’d rather recollect a setting
Than own a rising sun
Though one is beautiful forgetting—
And true the other one.

Because in going is a Drama
Staying cannot confer
To die divinely once a Twilight—
Than wane is easier—

Hands are shaking, loud, always loud and in my face
Something is gripping at my heart, hard to breathe, to look them in the face
Tears
I'm crying
Shaking harder, louder, always louder at the tears
Try to make them stop won't you?
It never really works.