ON DYING MY HEART IS NO LONGER MY OWN
by Ricky Novaes de Oliveira
Suggested disappearances— walk away without footsteps. Recede a trace. Of all the words on my bookcase, “sure” and “fine” were remembered. Meaningless in routine gusts of ancient spring. My hair pines and needles palms harboring cones and seagulls in salty breezes add to the sap. When calling home, I think of hallway corridors to cornered dislocations reverbing a beating heart regard
My professor called this poem “beautiful.”
& that’s it. I hope you agree with her.
Until next Thursday, more or less, Ricky