by erika

I do not want the things that make a good poem

a dead mother

a dead bird

a dead son

this one word, divorce, has enough death in it

(enough guiltĀ  enough failure enough blame)

to contrive at least one hundred mediocre sonnets of despair


I do not want better, more fetid ingredients

words that smell of over-ripe lilac

or fish guts

or loneliness


Better poems wait for darker days

and the need to survive them



this loss is enough to make a few words

appear and rearrange themselves

into the memory of your mouth

or the shape of a peach


left in the sun to rot



I feel lucky

that all I have to grieve

is a peach