You entered our lives like a gigue and departed
Just as quick, the echoes sounding
Naked rooms: where you’d meet us, bounding
To the door to greet us; broken-hearted,
I recall you, Poe, as a warm, soft weight,
In nighttime rounds across the bed;
“The happiest cat in the world,” I’d said,
A flimsy glove tossed at the foot of fate.
For too bright you burned and now, an afterimage,
You’ve astonished us with grief and rage;
So tender me this final privilege:
Inscribe my heart as words upon the page.


and word itself
is an infanticide.
a self-defeating thought
both itself and its successor.

that which shapes the lips
into a crowning question
and yet with a simple sound
is stilled.

yet in spain
half-forgot beneath a tangle
of perplexing semantics
is a gate left gap-wide
onto that savage plain
of an a, and an a, and an a, and

Published in The Warren Undergraduate Review, Spring 2013.