Lucy Howard-Taylor


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.