Mar/Apr 2017 • Vol. XXXIX No. 2 Poetry |

In Memoriam JB

You're leaving us the things you found (we found) so hardto speak about—the books, the films,the high beam on your car, political shenanigansthat split us wide apart, the things we never could agree upon, you on the right, me on the left. I well recall the night before the Iraq invasion,shouting at you over quaking scallopini at Valdarno's,tears streaming down my face, my specs misted over—can't you see? can't you see? why won't you see? And you, polite, calm, infuriatingly right,the tactful English gentleman confronting an unruly desperate Australian virago. What's the matter with the woman? True grief is tongueless (as I once saidin an early poem about lost love). I still believe it. We never learn, dear John. We've grown up like a pack of frightened kidsstanding in the corners of the world, graduates of the school of inhibition, cum laude, wary of weapons of mass destructionthe biggest of which is death. We're learning …We feared that love was not enough. You do

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