He was my favourite writer, except for Zola, of course.
I loved the way he sang so sweet about Texas, graffiti and Fogtown.
I could feel the frost upon him as he sang about Anchorage.
And I swear I’d have married him,
yet I strayed,
I wanted to kiss the concrete he walked on.
When I painted my toenails under a tree,
He’d climb it, to play a mandolin,
pale chords lost to me,
and I can tell you this: I began to envy him,
so I gave him my death kiss.
There wasn’t a reason except I was jealous — reason enough for me.
And in my holiness, I dug a hole
in my basement, and sang of Italy.
Now, multi-coloured lights send a sigh
through me, soul’s sadness — a scar.
Days are smiles: a circular dance that laughs.
Nights are tears: diamonds that glisten.
In rearview silence I look back.