Today's poem is by Oliver Bendorf
When my camera looks up at November, it shows me
the darkest part of the maple & then gives out.
You were halfway down the street at that point
and more belligerent than I recalled, which I now
understand happens with the years,
each one a brother further gone. You and I, we are not
so different. We grout our voids with applesauce.
We wear our sorrows like a kindergarten costume,
try to contain the glitter, an impossible proposition.
When I die, look for me at the feeder: a red-bellied
woodpecker capped and dashing in a salt and pepper
overcoat, my skull tightly wrapped to absorb the impact
from repetitive things I do to fill my hunger. Yes,
there will be glitter. Your hair will be unseasonably
salty. I will bring the flashlight.
Copyright © 2011 Oliver Bendorf All rights reserved
from Sugar House Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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