The Friend after Mary Oliver

The first friend

I ever made

would not talk,

quiet in a room

but boomed and thundered

at the burning

amazement of our friendship

until it died. Later

I recovered from my loss and separated

the old from the new

and forgot him. Now these memories

are out of me: out of my mind, my mind

is empty; we are no longer

inseparable, tangled together, certain to fall

back to how we use to be. Out of pain,

and pain, and more pain

we continue onto a new plot. We are forgotten

by the terrors of high school.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741