My friend wrote poetry,
taping her poems
to the wall
and refrigerator door.
She once told me,
If I wanted to go to heaven
I’d send God a note saying:
Wish you were here.
Claiming she had no religion,
nor wanting to be reborn,
she only asked to be released
and kept one suitcase packed,
joking about carrying
her baggage
wherever she went.
One day, she was gone
and on the table
a napkin and coffee cup
smeared with red lipstick
next to a postcard:
He’s dead.
Mom said to come home.
In the drawer, a broken
heart, still bleeding.
Michael Minassian a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. His chapbooks include poetry: The Arboriculturist (2010); Chuncheon Journal (2019); and photography: Around the Bend (2017). For more information: https://michaelminassian.
Michael - I've been moved by this poem more and more each time I've read it
ReplyDelete