It's just poetry, it won't bite


02.23.14 Posted in today's words by

Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals including Maintenant, A New Ulster, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She is the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House 2014), Love Poems … Yes … REALLY … Love Poems (Sybaritic Press 2013) and she’s the editor of the forthcoming anthology Near Kin: Words and Art Inspired by Octavia E. Butler (Sybaritic Press 2014). Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, HP Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steampunk accessories, and the letter S.

By Marie Lecrivain

We never thank the ones who murder us,
whose words strike at the heart of who we are
and leave behind a tiny acidic barb
that wears away our memories of who they were,
as well as our illusions of who we wished them to be.

We never appreciate the death of love,
the dull and dreary days we slog through,
the sleepless nights we waste
weeping into their pillow.
In the throes of grief,
we’re unable to see
the refinement as it happens
in real time, until one day
we awaken, tearless
and excited for the first time
in years. We rush to the mirror
and find a new face there to greet us.
Congratulations. Now, you understand.


Comments are closed.

Subscribe to Blog via Email

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,904 other subscribers

Latest Podcast Episode
vox poetica archives
%d bloggers like this: