The Emily Poems


 I went right up to her
and sat down. She looked
at me – straight at me, her
eyes, dark and deep set.
She reached for my hand, and held it
for some time, tender and present.
She didn’t flinch or demure.
I spoke of her, not to her, not appreciating
her precious grounded presence.
I took more than I gave.


A deer appeared in our neighborhood today,
and a moth circled my head.
Emily died yesterday; she
was a light burden on the gurney.
Dragonflies thicken July’s purple dusk.
One hums in my cat’s mouth.
Let him go, Anna; he’ll eat mosquitoes.
The deer has found all the gardens on our street,
and seems quite at home.
Emily’s roses have survived her.
A cool breeze blew in for relief.
I cried goodbye to her last Sunday,
as she held my hand and prayed
through large doe eyes.
The moth isn’t afraid, and mines from me
a rare gentleness. I abide its electron dance.
A neighbor says to me, have you seen the deer?
Yes. The undertaker drove her away.


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