By: Ethan Goffman

My poem is not in heaven, my poem is not in hell.
Like scores of dozens of thousands of others,
like the stars strewn across the cold night sky
awaiting a dawn that may never come,
My poem is in limbo.

The somewhat important journal
where I sent my poem,
a desperate love letter
yearning for a great big YES,
will not answer its urgent plea.
There is no Yes.
There is no No.
There is only silence.

I dressed my poem in a saucy name
like a good-natured wench,
bestowed an odor
of decadent perfume.

My poem is
shards of glass
glistening with promise
dazzling in the morning light
yearning to cut
tender flesh.

My poem is
a plaintive flute
a screaming trumpet.

My poem is silent.

My poem is
a love letter
waylaid by bandits
on a road at dusk.

My poem is
a long-ago love
I kissed only once,
never quite bedded.

I have forgotten my poem’s face
the color of its eyes, the texture of its lips
the shape and weight of its body
its perfume
its sweat.

My poem sits benumbed
with throngs of desperate souls
gazing at heaven.