Boy
I never touched your skin,
so in my mind it is scaly, pallid,
dry with impending death.
Your eyes couldn’t open,
they tell me, but I know
both were unbearably blue,
the kind you see in a too-
beautiful summer sky,
like the day you left us.
That I do remember: how
the whole landscape was wrong–
sunshine, chirping, full
trees, gentle ripples on the water.
You should have come to me
in a dream, let me see
your baby face, shocked by
your own sudden entrance-exit,
said helloIknowyou’rethere.
Because now I can’t prove
you existed, not even with these pangs
in my ribs saying you miss
the shit out of him, my lost
little favorite.
Caitlin Johnson is the Managing Editor of CAIRN: The St. Andrews Review. Additionally, she holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Lesley University. Her work has appeared in Charlotte Viewpoint, Fortunates, Pembroke Magazine, Vagina: The Zine, and What the Fiction, among other outlets.
Photo found at rgbstock here.
Categories: Poetry
Tags: Caitlin Johnson, e-zine, ezine, hyperbole, longing, melancholy, melancholy hyperbole, poem, poet, poetry, submit
Melancholy Hyperbole 
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