My Way Home

On my way home, I stop in on a friend
whose death we’d both expected. We pretend
to be at peace, the peace of another time
gone off too early, taken in her prime
as she’d’ve wanted done, as she’d’ve penned.

So you know better? What, you’d recommend
we lie dead still to justify our crime?
Or come see you this late? Why, when I’m
on my way home?

Fortunately, I know which words will end
before they get repeated. Once you bend
it far enough, truth echoes its own mime
of love you quit on, high walls you won’t climb
to reach her on those stairs we still descend
on my way home.


maggie, based on a draft by sara


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