Details of her printed life, written in her book
By a friend, are mine to contemplate.
Her words, carved from her core, resonate
In this survivor’s own hard remembrance.

I speak her lines with an organic temper;
I see her photo with slightly yearning eyes.
Her suicide won’t brake me from love
While those remnants remain.

Her business is words, one side sticky,
The other side stuck in a paper matrix.
I eat those words to release them
From the only death she avoids.

My business is bursting my limits
To let her live, and admit my love for her
Ghost, and let what’s left of her
Sinew into me as a summer sun ray.

My thoughts extend, and reach her way:
There is a safe place, a realm full of words
Of lull, free dreams, clean linen on the bed,
Peace, children anchoring life, seaside grass.

At my age I recall bleak summers, and grip
Survival that she could not conceive
With all of her subtle powers, and could not
Save herself with a million acres of words.

From Bedlam, slowly moving of limb and lip,
Her crazy predawn scratchings bleed into
A matrix of bleached paper; her mind
Breached by meds propels past mad pedantry.

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