After you died I could see
the secret of my making—
Somewhere in Virginia, a man took you
to suffer his imagination, loved you
like a silo, like an exit ramp
moving continental and huge
toward the avenue.
When bad things happen, you said,
think of them as adventures.
I listened to your stories, how possibility
resembled a long illness.
You were as predictable as the dead—
closing what doors were next to open.
WHEN GOD WAS MAN
My mother said men only
care about T and A.
But her someday alphabet
wouldn’t stop me
parting surely as a bridge
after someone guns a car across it—
taking the curve too fast
in a Benz I can’t remember
the color of, dumb
and feverish before God,
holy in his assigned task—
brief beneath the golden cross
that held my neck in two.
Amy Thatcher is a public librarian who lives and works in Philadelphia, PA. Her poetry has previously been published in Guesthouse.
Categories: featured, featured poet, fiction
Amy, your poetry is fierce and beautiful.