hi. It feels a little strange to reinter this small world a dear friend and I made when we were thirteen so we could be like our poetry teacher. And here I am.
So, I've been writing like a crazy person lately, and one of the hardships of leaving art school is the people that understand me and my work are no longer with me to say "False." And/or "Good, but work on it harder." Or "Buck up."
So this is an attempt to let those people (and whoever else) to comment on my poetry as able and I might talk about how cold it is in Chicago sometimes (because being from the South, I've never experienced a real Fall or Winter. The other day, people were complaining about how hot it was outside. It was 85. I was rejoicing in the coolness.)
To the CWs:
I carry your heart (I carry it inside of my heart). My heart misses you a lot.
A Final Hooray
An egyptian cotton bed with fourteen of us piled on top,
a nest made of hearts too heavy to talk about it.
All we could do was breathe each other in, eat bagels
with apricot preserves. There was a dog
more like a bear, the gentlest bear you’ve ever seen and even he
knew. The eyes told you so.
There was that moment, the next day, next to a rose bush or outside
a book store where we finally admitted to each other.
The pavement was hot and the highway dusty. At night, we squealed
through sprinklers, pretended to be younger. It was field day
and the popsicles last forever.
But we were not younger,
and laid down. What else to do at the end,
except be with loves and say it is finished.
Thoughts? Much love,
Emilea
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