No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I tell my mother it was a random act of violence, not a targeted hate crime. I tell her the story I’d told the police officers while I laid in the hospital bed. We’d all agreed that I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.
i miss what i cannot have
Murmur to me the song of our time.
The one from our dreams, the one that hurts:
Syd’s doctor had explained to her that a month or two after the procedure, her body would settle into a sleeker reality.
Bone-weary stylus, embraced By her maroon stained metacarpus, Traces familiar trails- In attempt to recall His tender waves.
One day, Jen opened the closet to find that it had already been tidied and organized. Tina’s thin, spidery hand had even made labels for the plastic boxes she’d used to group together the family’s things. “Halloween” one box said, “Cal State Stuff” said another, “Photos,” “Kid Art.”