Denise R. Weuve

Ink Damage and Other Permanent Stains

Immortalizing Live Thunderstorms

It is the nature of the writer. We will immortalize those that enter our lives, and sadly those who leave. Whether they enter with thunderstorm beauty, screaming their entrance and lighting up the sky like vertical fireworks, or ebb in with the tide, moving closer to the toes with each thrashing of the current against the shore. It doesn’t matter how they leave or when, they will find their way into our words.

I remember this past February hating every word I wrote about one person. Hating that somehow he got the benefit of my words immortalizing him. Resented when I did an open mic and read a group of poems, I would walk away with compliments on the poems that featured him. At one point I said I would not a write a damn thing that had to do with him (of course that lasted, not)

But it made me look back at older work and see who I have written about. So many people. People I have forgotten about and people I can never forget about. I reworked some poems, two about Andrew Demcak, whose birthday was the 23rd, one has been accepted by Eunoia Review, and should be up soon. The funny thing to me, was who I had not written about, like the one man I had agreed to marry (it never happened) I had written one line about and never went any further. Terribly odd that four years amounted to:
this is where I want you most
with ratted hair,
smelling of cigarettes
and last nights booze.
Around the time I was looking at this Aleathia Drehmer asked me to submit to Durable Goods, her publication. Of course I was honored by the request, how could you not be? I wanted to be sure I sent her something new and just sat the day and worked on the poem and sent it along with three others. I am surprised and happy to say that after after ten years the groom that never was has been immortalized. “And This Is Home” is the poem Aleathia took. (on a side note, isn’t that the coolest name? Aleathia.)

Weirdly I was at Veggie Grill with Alan when the email came from Aleathia and I didn’t immediately act excited or happy, and it was because I thought about the who of the poem. I don’t even recall telling Michael, the who of the poem, that I wrote. But Alan has known pretty close to the beginning of our friendship. Michael=four years in my life=1 poem, Alan=nearly 3 years in my life=14 poems.

Just Weird.

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