My Elegy, Just In Case

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My Elegy, Just In Case


In Honor of the Many Families in the USA Living in and Experiencing Inhumane Terror from ICE


If I die, survive me by memorizing Neruda's number seven-o-five,

not by this "scribble-scrabble" you would call it; not this, which I write

as a stubborn warm winter cries "morning", and I here, alone

set in my favorite sun-patch, much like our cats. 


Don't picture me here, waving and whispering to the ancestors

through the bees nor them as they waggle and hum through our lavender bush out front. 

Rather, recite whole-heartedly his words, sing them out to the trees, no peeking!

Do not trouble yourself with mine. I am gone. 


Yes, this used-to-be-teacher, self proclaimed artist,

everyday mom (who loves you, kid, and don't you forget it:

Top to bottom, inside outside, forwards and backwards,


near or far, no matter what!) is gone. 

Remember that and this: that you, my darling, 

always know where you can find my love.

In response to the prompt "Elegiac Boggle 6th Annual Getaway 1999"  by Peter Murphy found in his collection called Challenges for the Delusional, edited by Christine Malvasi.  


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