When The Poets Stop Writing About Love
i found a note on my walk to the campus, that read
from one friend to another, 'my boyfriend writes
me the prettiest poems.' and i think to myself, 'why
waste such precious time on love? '
it hits me at 12: 10 as i am up the first set of stairs
to my next class: what will he have, this young poet,
(more than likely) dressed in a pressed black suit, beret,
and wide-framed glasses, with his composition book
of empty pages covered just by the length
of his right arm, with his space pen to write in any
direction (but a decent one) , when he feels his
left common carotid artery send a message
to his brain that love is all an ideal and the brain relays,
through the superior vena cava, blood that will make it all
though, this is not the heart. it's the pathway
of the amygdala that tells us, 'Love is false.'
and to be that pathway: the one that leads us
through every doubt and fear and the ways to end
it all. to see every inch he measures out of his parents
garden hose, a little more than enough to extend
from the exhaust pipe to his driver-side window (add
an extra inch or two for trucks and suv's) , or the red
marker that spots the direct path to the heart
for his second-edition Renaissance-style dagger to follow,
the number of pills and the right brand of rubber
bands to tie a plastic Hefty bag over his head, or will
he be simple?
i reply, leaving the letter by the Rose Of Sharon
Bushes, asking, 'what method will he use when the
poems stop? '
my neighbor committed suicide the other
night. and to think, i speculated murder for some
inspiration to write a poem. but the case was simple:
his body is in in a pool of thick blood, and a note
i took from his right-pocket reads, 'i went for a breath
of fresh air.'