You now live in your pronouns: in your nameless identifiers, in the outline on cracked asphalt, in the too few evidence markers. Maybe if I say your's enough, I could shape the rest of you out of those cherry stems, the green ones we spat out knotted on the fire escape.
But you—no. She...
No.
Something is missing. To magnify a chalk outline on the pavement, I need something more than futile hope, more than a neighborhood waiting for the unapt obituary. We need a name, but even I can't say it. Instead, we pray to the "you" and "she" and "her's" and "ours," speak of you in every sentence we have left to say.
ΔΙΑΒΑΖΕΙΣ
Day Three After Death
ΠοίησηThis is another poem I wrote while I was in Professor Johnson's "Conceptions of the Self" seminar at Southern Connecticut State University. The prompt we were given was to write a poem about pronouns.
