Even the stones protest
the way you threw yourself
from the tall building,
in the middle of the night,
your mother asleep next door.
There were the flowers—
forsythia buds new this spring,
Charles Street showered
with white petals.
Where can I find you?
You outpaced me on the streets,
my boyfriend became your boyfriend.
Neither friends nor enemies,
we walked together,
talked of passing things,
the price of Mangoes
in the stores by the harbor,
the shop that sold the best jeans.
Brad and you were breaking up,
you were planning to move
to a tiny apartment
from the row house where
we all lived.
How can this house
undertake so many deaths?
Many have come here lost,
wanting to be whole,
like the wrinkling wave
that hits the shore and rages
with a final sound.
Not quite friends,
these frail moments join us,
but do not set us free.




Forum Comments:My Friend
Linda Benninghoff has an MA in English with an emphasis on creative writing (by hinds). She most recently published in the Wallace Stevens Journal, Agenda, Lodestone, and Aleola.


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