Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains


My friend is gone today, left for Chicago , a far windier place. Perhaps I have misstated much here. Friend? Former student, who I love dearly. The kind of student that makes me wish I had children, even when I know it’s an impossibility. The kind of student that I would spend my time mentoring even if I was not paid by the district. The type of student you tell nothing but the truth to, even when it’s hard to say. Truly the kind of human I wish I was a mother to. Well, what ever part of me can be motherly. Gone? college, but I think gone. I think the permanent stretch of moving along through the world and he doesn’t quite know yet. He’ll be back to his parents, visit friends, but I think when all is said and done, California is not where he will stay.

I will miss this man, and in a strange way, more than those I should miss. Weird how the heart feels.

But then I find myself missing people moments after they leave and then wishing they never showed up. Wishing they didn’t give me a reason to know loneliness.

so here is the beautiful thing about this man, he asked me to write a poem for him. And this is beautiful cause every other man doesn’t want me to write about them, hang out the truth, as I see it, on the clothes line between our windows. I can’t count the times, men have become cold or estranged over poems. Beg like little boys for transformer action figures to see these poems, then pout as if I bought them the wrong action figure and can return it to the store for a refund. Once it’s on the page, it’s on the page. there is no taking it back. No amount of shaking, yelling, silence, or walking away makes it not so.

and by the way timothy it was always out of love when I tore your work apart

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