Kevin Dwyer

February

 

last night you beat on my chest
seized my sweater from the hamper
flicked your cigarette into the parking lot
while the car was running

reminds me of that time we saw those wolves in the woods
feasting on an elk

you told me you’d gut me before you’d ever love me
then offered your lighter

 

 

and, then

 

i ran to the roof of the skyscraper

you were standing on the ledge
patient as daylilies
in early summer

you smiled at me
like the space between was the altar

the stars and moon our witness
silence our vows
and the wind pushed you

i remember

you were so graceful
the way you sank through the air
how your arms reached upward

your eyes closed
and the emptiness embraced you

a woman squeezed my hand
and led me away
her back a tattoo of wings

let her go

she said
holding my face
wiping my eyes with her thumbs

some must lose
so that they may love

 

 

 

Kevin Dwyer

 

 

 

Kevin Dwyer is a Ph.D. student at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette and a native of Hawthorne, New York. His chapbook In Memoriam was published by Yellow Flag Press and his flash essay on writing and translation was recently featured in the Red Soles Series by PrettyRedShoes.

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