This Is It, Your

/, Blesok no. 45/This Is It, Your

This Is It, Your

This Is It, Your
Being Borned
Fear of Sugar (a sestina for Angela)
We"ll Be Meeting
A Poppy by the Rails

poem without any aim or pretension
to be another source of your tension—
a post-apocalyptic poem that no one
will read anyway;

found it after you’d shut the door, after
the fray. Inside my palm, while I
held onto the handle in vain.

It had hidden, afraid, in the space
between my fingers:

it took me great pains to tease it out.

But I know it’s yours.

You must’ve left it some day at my place,
some day when you held my hand — and
now I thought, maybe I’d better
give it back.

Still, you might’ve forgotten what it’s like
and you’ll think it’s only an excuse
to send you a letter—

but it’s not a letter, see? This is your
left behind, nearly dead,
a sort of a post-mortem in a postscript,
a sort of a futile something unsaid.

AuthorMagdalena Horvat
2018-08-21T17:23:18+00:00 November 1st, 2005|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 45|0 Comments