South of close relatives, north of the minor arcana of pre-deceased
coworkers, neighbors, et cetera, subset of the mammoth
ship of friends; I use the b-word loosely, but not lightly. If we dated
or had sex. If I crushed on you, or anything in between.
Started in my twenties: drugs, no surprise. Latest inductee
(so far): didn’t make it to the big Seven-oh. Cause of death:
Covid/suicide/cancer? They rarely say anymore, but "at home."
(Some website always thinks they are still alive, like the snail mail
addressed to my dad who’d be 104 by now.) It's not a contest:
in one version of heaven, imagine date after perfect
amalgamated date, like the one perfect cat, composed of so many,
who will leap into my perfect arms at the famed Rainbow Bridge,
sniff my idealized neck with her flawless nose, all of us, in our hygge,
yearning for nothing but yearning, yearning, forever.
Julie Benesh is author of the poetry collection INITIAL CONDITIONS and the poetry chapbook ABOUT TIME. She has been published in Tin House, Another Chicago Magazine, Florida Review, and many other places, earned an MFA from Warren Wilson College, and received an Illinois Arts Council Grant. She teaches writing craft workshops at the Newberry Library. She holds a PhD in human and organizational systems. Read more at juliebenesh.com.
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