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by Catherine Owen


The poem breathes for you some days

It’s ok

The poem never says he isn’t, entirely,

Coming back

The poem has too many lungs to accept

Death completely

The poem, as it sings its dirge, notices

A poppy

Opening like a soft heart in the sun & then

The poem

Cannot tell you ever, with finality, it’s over

The poem takes your breaths for you

Some mornings

The poem is a lung