Sheila E. Murphy


In Memo(ri)(am)

she asked                                   (I listen
us to                                             (concepts that
write how                                   (is how
it feels                                          (I think
to be                                             (I said
alive now                                    (an adjective
she is                                            (and then
not I                                              (another ripened
am we                                           (modifying word
do not                                          (she’s gone
know where                               (I still
one another                               (hear her
lives except                               (exude question
a few                                              (after question
who write                                    (and absorb

would you mEND my BylinE?

are we on the same trip(wire)
is it sunday
are the beasts lodged safely in the tv box
how does it happen you are still handsome
how do I resemble your mirror's shotput
are the divans full of weeds again
how many calories does it take to make a mountain
how many molehills line your yard
were you a confiteor in a prior life
whose mentor is your lost pledge
how many windows have you ordered to be boarded up
whose pipsqueak's in your corner
are you ready to arrest me


One.


a soft, dependable legato tone emerges from the buffed wood of a pale guitar

          what if I oversleep
          my life with you
          still in it

a flower’s fictive instance of indebtedness

                              mean/while she asks
                                        to spell
                                                  mon dieu

we’re all magi
c


telepathy

tonight you
thought you
noticed my
expression form
just when
I felt
you looking

Two.

                                                  I delegate my loving you
                                                  to you
                                                  to love yourself

sap blisters glisten
on the front page
of this tree

what happened versus what did not:
                    four wheels sank
                    into half a foot
                    of mud

                                        saxophone threads
                                                  the better part of a defeat with
                    lush attraction

follow me to doppel-
dwell of melody on dew . . .

                              obfuscation works for her
                                        protection (no one’s hurt failing
                    to understand

margins on staves (octaves) yield latitude
          for long
                              soft shoulder roadside

 
 
 
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