Terese Coe -Poetry

RELENTLESS

Rounder and deeper than the line, 
the sound
breaks up through dry leaves.
Meandering, the river,  
through you. Branded, you, 
with even the bitterness 
that brands
the Western range.

THIS IS NOT A MANIFESTO

His last days as a free citizen, 
lying on the floor unable to rise
only to fall again, blind and lost 
among the scattered pills, the 
running faucet, food in the fridge
in the isolation of his apartment. 

For months she’d read to him from 
the blind Borges and Nagarjuna,
books he piled around him in thin towers 
on his couch. He stopped her mid-sentence, 
said You skipped.

I’m reading the translation, not the 
commentary. You know the commentary.

Later she says I’m going to be 
so fucked up when you’re gone—
Quickly, impatiently, he replies
Oh, stop.

His birthday in Intensive Care, tube in his lungs, 
a final line he smiles at, half-sedated, raising his 
eyebrows three times quickly to show 
he hears her say 
That’s a great costume. 
Too bad you missed the Halloween parade.

Terese Coe Shot Silk

TERESA COE

 

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