this was recently published by the fine folks at Mad Poets Society - http://www.madpoetssociety.com/index.php
I can’t call because your dead mother and I
have been sharing this couch for years
and parts of her are shifting into me,
making me some kind of half ghost
and if I pick up the phone to talk to you,
her voice will seep out,
and crawl in your ear and keep you up at night too
which sounds too terrifying.
I can’t ask you what you want for your birthday
or if you enjoyed the book I sent at Christmas.
Everything I can give you has to be sent in the mail
which I imagine your father might stuff in a closet or
behind the decorations in the garage.
There is a place in your house that is filled up with
toys I worried over for days.
And I can’t say I blame him.
They are unwanted gifts
from the unwanted sister
of his unwanted wife
except that I’m dying to know
how long your hair is at nine
and who your best friend is
or if you have a crush yet.
Most of all, I guess
I’m dying to know if you know who I am.
And I hope to god you do
because that makes the part of me that is not dead yet
feel a little more like something alive.
1 hour ago