Untitled
They tell me he is dead. I say I know.
My skin is frozen to the porch rail.
My heart is in the kitchen not beating.
He died silently beside the oven.The paramedics slip on the porch stoop.
My fingertips stay behind in the ice.
I have too many arms and can’t arrange them.
My knees buckle though I said they wouldn’t.I can see the words before I hear them.
It is cold and cold, and only cold.
Someone’s hand has me by the shoulder.
I say he is dead. They say they know.
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Hi, Julie.
I think I would be tempted to call the poem “Dis-titled”.
This line …
“I have too many arms and can’t arrange them.”
… is stunning!
I promise not to be a stranger.
Damn. I want to tell you how wonderful this poem is, but it made me cry. Sending you hugs. Can never have too many of those.
Julie,
I read of Steve’s death in the Gazebo and while I pondered what to say, time, as it usually does, passed. So I said nothing thinking, I don’t really know this person.
Well, I still don’t but I see you are writing again, and that’s a good thing.
TAke care,
Ed