I could do much more, to keep me from bruising. In the lining of the skies is what you’re daring, when you’re fasting, though it’s wholesome, in whatever it brings on. Anger gives way to a feud from our lifelike possessions such as jalopies in ditches, their door handles pearly. I’m able to admit to you that I am a glutton. Diaphanous, by night , it wasn’t the first time I heard your crooning. When I thought of you dying, my ears delivered their contents, on the way to the Grand Concourse. It came in unsure murmurs, sounds from necks and eyes. Like stars in the azure blacken, your future grave wide open, smitten on the very same day I can recall seeing you crying.
Michael Igoe is a Chicago native, and longtime Boston resident. He has numerous works published in journals, both online and in print, including recent work in wellingtonstreetreview.com, elephantsnever.com, and dreamnoir.art.
Michael won the National Library Of Poetry Editors Choice Award 1997.
Michael can be found at poetryinmotion416254859.wordpress.com and on Twitter @MichaelIgoe5.
About this poem
"Lake Tomahawk came to me upon the recent death of my mother. It's in a remote area in Northern Wisconsin."