Poetry for the Lost

Once again, social media (Goodreads) reminded me to miss my friend who liked all the same books I did. My friend who wrote the most scathing, obscenity-packed eviscerations of the ones that fell short of her standards. My friend who killed herself last year.


For Lauren

I still have your book.

It was good. I read the whole thing
even though it was nonfiction,
and I don’t usually get into that.

I still have your book.

I don’t know why I’ve kept it so long.
I’ve had it for, like, five years now
And I’ve had plenty of opportunities to return it.

Except we were probably meeting out someplace
In ridiculous shoes. Carrying tiny, useless purses
Only big enough to hold lipstick
And a pack of Parliaments
That neither of us smoked.
Except when we did.
Like when we were together.

I still have your book.

I go to those places sometimes,
And I look for you.
Swear sometimes I can hear you.
Cursing.

You’d be so mad if you knew
The bullshit that’s going on right now.

I keep thinking I should call you.
Or text.
Because it’s been too long,
And I have no excuse.

Except that you’re gone.

But I miss you.

I’m so mad at you.

And I still have your book.