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LYN LIFSHIN
Getting Your E-Mail
imagine a letter
coming years after
the writer who sent
it is dead, or weeks
after weeks that
never were what
they could have
been. Nothing
seemed not to hurt
from him, that ache
you feel at 12 and
are supposed to
know is absurd
later Aprils. Well,
I was a mess with
enough pills to do
something awful.
Instead I checked
E mail on the hour,
turned the black to
words, an antidote
for his poison that
almost ruined Paris,
Madrid. I might
as well have been
caught in the trap
of his words,
enchanting then,
tempting, now though I
know he is a spider
who can spin silk,
gorgeous webs,
glistening jewel-
like, then
devoured
Copyright 2006, LYN LIFSHIN, all rights retained |
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