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