an area code

strange, the number of girls’ houses

that i slept in, memorized.

that still pop up in my dreams as part of

malls or mansions or schools, somehow,

in the way that dreams make things

pop up.

strange, how you lose people somewhere along

the way, how they lose you, too.

i don’t call, i don’t call.

you wouldn’t pick up.

but i still remember the porcelain cows on 

your kitchen counter, the way your

room looked like with the shades down.

the way you laughed at me when i was

being undeniably stupid. the way your mother

told me to stop playing your piano.


somehow i don’t remember what i did

the last time i was there.

somehow i don’t remember your middle name,

not anymore.

somehow i can still hear your laugh,

if i’m trying to make up a voice in my

head, if i’m trying to think of something 

new it comes up with the old,

ha ha ha, your twitch at the corners

of your mouth, your ugly giggle.

delighted. in my head, you’re delighted.

somehow i let you be. somehow

it doesn’t hurt, somehow 

it’s just a faint thing at the ends 

of the break of dusk and i say,

i say i say i say i miss you,

my friend, my long-gone swing-set partner.

This poem is about: 
My community


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