National Poetry Month

[brigdh]

When You Are Old by Spencer Gordon

Life is a long time grieving, especially the first time.
The second time you try, and it’s all right, there’s less tears;
it’s a reunion you never thought would happen. Then
the call comes back: the hard line in the head that said

don’t kiss, don’t dance, don’t do that. And even drinking
is easier, somehow, like each sip was watered down with
berries and pills and ice. You never dreamed it
would be so easy. But this is your second time around,

and you’re used to feeling used, and you want to see
the people you thought were gone for good, and so you
lean toward the fat neck beside you, and you say kiss me
darling, I’m back for you, and you alone, and the trees

aren’t sad, are they? The air is a calm mourner, you say;
it doesn't need a wake to drink at. It doesn't need friends or
family. You're like the wind, you think. You don't need a friend.
You don't need another life. And so it ends.