Becoming Substantial

E. Erazo

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On Viewing a Friend

I feel like I’ve lost
something. Perhaps
a common ring off
my finger, or a dream
languishing in waking.
Or maybe a link between
a friend and a face
like wax:


a reminder of fire bursting through
tangling wires laced in my skin.

 

 

If…but I haven’t.

If I wrote a poem for you,
it would go something like this:

“The air is cold tonight, and
points toward your arms.”

It would contain Nerudian contradictions
like “I loved you sometimes

and I hated you sometimes
I’m convinced I’ve always loved you.”

It would contain images that engrave
themselves on your body
like tattoos, permenant
and something you thought
beautiful (at one time),

although
now it’s stretched,
and graying with age.

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