Ten Months Later

It begins so cold,
so professional in tone
as if to hide the intimacy we shared,
restless in its shallow grave.

Buried, yes, but far from dead-
I can feel it rising up
with ease through my resistance.
I remember everything about your voice.

There are certain things we talk about
and certain things
we can't, or don't.

Again and again
I am amazed and afraid
by how well we know-
and will always know-
each other.

I listen and I think about
all that we are missing
in each other's lives.

Helpless now,
I fill my phone with tears.

by Harley Woodhouse

A Sad Child

You're sad because you're sad.
It's psychic. It's the age. It's chemical.
Go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.

Well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
Count your blessings. Better than that,
buy a hat. Buy a coat or pet.
Take up dancing to forget.

Forget what?
Your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
I am not the favorite child.

My darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you're trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car,

and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside you head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.

by Margaret Atwood