Last Rites

An Elegy, Set in November

You told me you didn’t read classics, and still, I told you to read War and Peace—
“It’s a friend more than anything,”— you were a friend more than anything—
Every bone singes with memory— the time my fork ventured onto your plate,
Stealing pancake slivers, debating the matter of butter. You laughed at me.

Tonight, I make my way past Arlington, and I won’t step on the boundary
of Newbury. It was there, as your face was illuminated by sunlight,
That I thought I might love you. It’s hard to think about your face—
Painted with lights— red and blue— and shuttled into the ambulance.

Guilt–– a vulture picking at meatless bones. Pink Moscato ruptures
My veins— red and blue— while I write this in the back of the Uber, and
The driver is talking about the election. It’s been twenty-four hours,
The earth turned over only once since you, and he is talking about the fucking election.

There’s talk of pills, of razors— instruments— I don’t wish to know
How you composed your death— can you hear the music?— there is a moment
Between the ending of a song and the applause. I wish to freeze it—
The silence reverberates as your eyes turn to the crowd— I don’t need to be reminded
Of what it sounds like when they applaud you. It seems that

Time is churning out tragedies. The tragedy of how I will grow old,
The tragedy of how I am at this party, some woman is groping at my hips
While you are in the morgue. I cannot stop thinking about the morgue.
I cannot stop thinking about the— photos the policeman took—
His gloves— fish beneath the surface of a pond— documenting the scene.

A vacancy warning scribbled on the toe tag— so it goes—
None of this will bring you back— still, I      write.
None of this will bring you back— still, I                  breathe.
Absorbing every speck of space allowed and offering up my lungs
So that you can feel the burn of winter
one                 
      last                        
  time.

Second Chance

November’s hurtling in, and I can’t quite fathom why
I’ve been distracted for so long,
looking for God
Under the street lamps and sycamore trees,

As if she would tell me why
You didn’t want to fall in love with me.
It’s only fair to assume you saw violet in my eyes
While your jaded tones could not compete
or compare.

Remember how I waltzed back to you,
the refrigerator light illuminating all the flaws
One day you could’ve hated
if given the chance?

I don’t think so much anymore about
Who you could’ve been to me, yet,
I am aching somewhere
within me

Still, the possibilities,
How they ache.

Unfinished

I see you when you weave in and out of my dreams,
Trying to bring yourself back to life.
I saw you standing there, right at nightfall
Hungry for my hands, begging me
To be eternal with you, but I cannot give myself up to sirens.

There’s only so much left to say once the story has ended,
But I’ve found a thousand ways to rewrite it.
To keep rewriting. Keep reliving,
When you cannot even live this all for the first time,
You’ve brought me into limbo with you.
It will only be over once I finish the page. So I keep erasing.

I cannot let you sleep. No, not now, not after everything
I’ve done to resurrect you. It’s fruitless. I shake God’s hand
And the deal won’t go through. Transaction pending.

She said that you could watch me sleep.
You can only watch me sleep.
And she said to tell you that               there’s nothing more for us.

Piper Summer is a young poet from Phoenix, Arizona, who currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts. She is an undergraduate student studying writing and philosophy at Simmons University. When she’s not writing new poems, you can find her petting a cat, reading, or looking at vintage photos in antique shops.