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Lucy Howard-Taylor
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For Kerry Lynn F., by the river, upon learning of your death.
It’s come winter, Kerry, I hadn’t noticed.
The sky is loaming and there is moss on the ground.
I walked out by the river for you today, Kerry,
The sky fleshed pink, bloomed a perfect peach
And died. On the way I was held up by an
Imaginary stranger, who cuffed my wrist and
Threatened to end me. “My sister’s just died,”
I said. “There’s been quite enough of that today,
I think.” And so I let me go, and you saved me again.
I’m on this bench, Kerry. The one I wanted to
bring you to. The cathedral strikes some hour we
might have held. You said we were kindred, spiriting,
Do you remember? Paris was ours – in theory, solely,
But still. And life was ours – in practice, even if we
Didn’t entirely approve. It is funny, you know. We
Broke our bodies so totally, and you, only you,
you stop. Where are we going to meet now, Kerry?
This past hour may make it harder than it was before
in hemispheres, but not impossible, surely. Is it wishful
to see you in the trees here, Kerry? Is this how it goes?
I will miss you like a hole in the head, girl. You
Drew a picture of me once, in our dropped days,
Do you remember that? I wonder where I kept it.
Winter has come, darling, just this afternoon. It
Took me a while to notice, it took me until my fingers
Bent blue. It took me until I had called your name
Across the way, and you, for the first, failed to answer.
Walking back I was really very cold, Kerry.
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