Poetry Journal Dec. 17, 2023
She's out there somewhere, stalking me like she did when we first met, her indominable spirit carrying on despite all that she had gone through, all the dreamed forced to give up, all those lost souls she's needed to abandon in order to keep herself a live, a stranger who is not a stranger. I know as much about her as I know about myself, except for how she ticks -- after all this time and all I've read, all she has revealed, I still can't get inside her skin, in that shell she lives in this time after having left so many other shells behind, the husks of those who professed to love her, maybe who still think they love her when the shell they so admire, so carve for is as empty as a gravestone -- only bones beneath. 2023 menu email to Al Sullivan
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