Hey man, it’s ok. It’s me.
You don’t have to do this anymore.
My name is just a name.
The rope was just a rope
the weed was something helpful –
at least that part was fun.
I left you, and I am sorry.
I wasn’t as strong as you.
You, who had it roughest
fuckin’ beat-ass and slum
licking mother – records
skipping alone, listening to
rats in the walls; Padraic
alone in an alder
coming down never;
so I went up with him,
so what?
See, I couldn’t climb
trees or up to your word clouds.
I couldn’t get anywhere past my eyebrows.
Ugly fuck and jailbird brown.
But you, dude, you’ve got
fucking wings and you don’t even
have to die to use them, don’t you see?
They’re attached to your back as you
type and they places you fly, holy shit,
brother – take me there, I want to come with you now –
Let me see how you make these decisions
about oatmeal and steel and saving graces.
Of rain and brakes and heavy-trips downward.
Love, is everywhere, look around you. You could try writing
about it, when you are done here…
No-where to go up, but remember,
the opposite is not down.
You couldn’t have saved me.
It wasn’t your fault.
I hurt too bad. Down was all I had. But
down isn’t the answer. Neither is up in a rope.
Neither is out straight on pills, on liquor –
God is pretty fucking funny when He is joking
with our lives.
The things I saw destroyed my chances.
I wasn’t as tough as you.
But I was brave the night I did it.
Not a pussy that night, no.
Can’t say I was a pussy that night. No.
Enough about me. Don’t come find me.
Stay put. Think about her eyes, you
can’t be responsible for that many oceans.
Think about the words, who would she write with?
Yeah, I know about her. I met her.
When you smiled one time, I met her.
Can’t think about being weak. Get mad instead –
Stay put and write your ass off.
Write my name 100 times and then let it slip
into a breeze. It’s ok. Let me go. I’m not the one
hanging on.
Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.
It’s enough now friend.
Let me go, you have big things to do.
Make me proud. Do the things I didn’t get to.
Write me. But live. Write us. But live.
Andrew, James. They are just names.
The rest is made for the ones living
that need you.

Photo Credit: Jon_Callow_Images Flickr via Compfight cc

Elisabeth Horan

Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She writes to survive and survives to write - We are all battling something. Let's support each other. Elisabeth enjoys riding horses and caring for her cats, chickens, goats and children (not necessarily in that order). She teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire.

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