Here's a preview of Alex Long's poetry--it's a long one, but so worth every word! Check out more when he reads at Beaverdale Books, December 1st, 7pm!
Prayer #34
We may say he or she
Took his or her
Life, and we will
Have to live with that.
But where? Where
Do we think
They’ve taken it?
May it never occur
To us to take it
Anywhere else
Than toward
This fleeting here and now
Where what we share and have
Reaches like sunlight,
Like a patient hand.
It may someday
Occur to us
To reach back
Toward our suicides
Half-smiling, half-asleep,
So we can bring
Them back.
We may regret it, finally,
But I’m telling you: reach,
Then place your lives
On their heads,
Like ashes or sunlight,
Like little hands.
Our suicides
Will answer this prayer
Only after you swear
You’ve seen them.
You will.
Why else reach toward them?
You will. You will
Miss them entirely,
You’ll look like
You’re waving,
And you will be
Embarrassed,
As if your best friend
Has ignored you.
You’ll stand there
On the platform,
As the trains go
Their separate ways.
You’ll busy yourself,
Pretending to fix
Your scarf
And gloves. It’ll be
Cold, and the sky
A golden room.
I’ll see you.
I’ve been there.
You’ll fix your hair
And search for a smoke
And wait for the next train
You’ve willingly missed
Because you knew—
You did—it was him,
Her. Right there.
You swore it.
You were wrong,
Or you weren’t.
So, wait.
You have to
Get home.
No choice.
The prayer?
May you never
Have to bother
With any of this.
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