by Elissa Minor
The world chat lost you never had a name;
you fluttered your soft cadences,
built a cocoon, and were gone.
In the end it was the words chat remembered you
(the permanent dent in the sofa, the
morning jog past unlighted windows,
the seeds your detail planted, only
lent a hand).
When this thought came, you had already abandoned
your wings; the knowing
that test run after test run had prepared
for you. These seeds haven't heard
beyond the soil—might never touch the air
outside the poem your life has written,
the thread you followed and the warning
you gave: "The darkness around us is deep."