After reading your poetry today,
after observing
the succulence
of your words,
and wandering
the threads
of your world,
and tasting
the poignancy
of your breakfasts
and other things devoured,

I am inspired to write a poem
of my own.
Is that not
how it always happens?

But I
do not believe
that today would be
better spent

writing a poem,
(inspired by your
hospital stays,
wandering intuition,
unnamed women who
loved you, or didn’t,
the rhythm and
breathiness in
your voice,
and the way
you stress
the last syllable
of each
than laying seaside
with my sister,
who laughs while
rubbing sunscreen
lotion onto the middle
of my back,
a place that
I cannot reach.
A poem
might hurt,
like you do.
My reality today,
instead, will be to write
in the sand
and avoid
the pain of sunburn.



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