The Death Of Aaron James

The
cello is a thick, heavy syllable
crying against the shoulder of
a thin woman,

a road of auburn hair trailing down her
spine. She understands value.

Prose is never numb,
it spans across nerves
playing emotions with finger

tips of red wood.
You brought Lydia to me
at twenty-five,
she dripped into my sleep
and led me
on a journey.

For you, she was a symptom of
something incurable. She opened my throat,
expanding me and you
suffocated.

The cello smiles with wide fingers,
thick like its soul.
Lydia takes me on a piano ride
in red wood snow where prose
grows and grows and grows.

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10 thoughts on “The Death Of Aaron James

  1. Maggie Mae,

    The depth of your connection to what is real continuously astounds me. Both comments above are perfectly true; this is incredibly moving, along with powerfully hopeful, and candidly intimate…

    Thank you for writing your spirit…

    gigoid, the dubious

  2. Love all the lush visceral domestic imagery in your poetry ā€“ termites and potatoes, muscle, bone and throat. You have a knack for packing enormous private emotion and narrative arc into narrowly circumscribed sets of imagery. Heavy, but I like it ļŠ

    1. Thank you! I know it can be a little too intense sometimes, but that’s how I’ve got to get it out or I’ll burst into flames!!

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