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Meredith Alexander

Remembrance, or the Lives of Poems

Poems like little cakes
wrapped up in cellophane.
See clear to the center,
crème-filled, or into a heart
of nuts and marshmallows
and caramel chunks.  Poems
covered in tin-foil like chocolate
Easter eggs.  Opaque, gooey,
viscous almost, all one
consistency that may just
melt between your teeth—
it’s a matter of taste.
Poems poured into shot-glasses.
Sharp green, thick like jello,
barely transparent, guilty pleasure.
Poems piled up in a fruit-basket,
ripening on a window sill
somewhere.  So wholesome, so round.

Then poems with feelings,
with spirits.  Poems with souls
immortal yet still fearful of
death or of embarrassment.

And poems without homes,
floating icons on a computer screen,
poems lost to society, poems
imprisoned, poems
in limbo.

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