A poem a day in April from Rutgers English PhD students and friends.

Friday, April 29, 2016

26, 27, 28

Four a.m. thundercracks and
then fell back asleep to join
you at an overpass: walked
to the rail to see a house
being dismantled, each wall
stacked, intact, in a truck that
would soon haul them all away.

In the morning jet engines
sound off under cloud cover.
I didn’t believe these days
would come again: losing faith
even in rain, winter, loss.
It won’t always be this way:
learning my lessons again.

Two nights later there are two
of you and I’m supposed to
figure out which one’s really
you: not the giant with the
waxen skin. Right. My sister
asks me what my other name
is, but I can’t remember.

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