Heard about you, Maya Angelou
and decided to have a good cry
on the stairs. Was almost to the hall, barefooted
when I realized I was holding my
breakfast peach, one bite gone.
Does poetry die with you, Maya Angelou?
And if so, will you take
from me too
the ‘cold defeat’ and leave no traces
no rages, no mastodons of remembering. Let remain
only empty cages,
where birds with wings once clipped
winds written in a fine, lilting hand
love verses to the clouds?
So I dry my eyes with my skirt hem
and think about writing. Hold the peach, turn it over in my palm.
Think about the smallness of held objects. Wonder if you,
can finally claim