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SWALLOWING THE BREAD CRUMB TRAILFor the living,nothing is ever enough. The dead have always had to leave us-- the friend, the lover, the assassin, the doubting critical parents, the testy mother or father, the elongated sister, are no longer pointing the way. The bread crumbs stick in the throats of those who are still living. They are the ones, they are the ones who swallowed while they were sleeping. The dead take off; they're off like a t-shirt stained with classified oils. They leave, and we have to swallow it. Grief has no understandable deadline or ending-- three, seven, thirty years--it doesn't matter-- the points are in our ears, noses and throats-- the dead are gone-and we must make a point of not going after them. |
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Issue #19, March, 2001 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.