Elegy

by Xavier Searle

        They have only dead heroes. —Larry Mitchell

 

There is a barrenness to the end of all loves.
If I must be honest, I don’t think we’ll ever recover.

If I must be, I’m still procrastinating
        the letter; afraid of what I’ll learn.

& what, then? He is a dead saint
        whose censors swing with my every step,

        whose myth is a pantheon without a name.
Dear, departed, beloved:

        I like to think I would have been your favorite,
        chasing uninked obituaries—both of us

                        still alive to love.

 



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