I thought I’d written myself out
thought I’d written myself out of words
written myself out of melancholy
myself out of friends.
And I had.
Now here is a poem about nothing.
A poem about my father cutting
his intestine out, and my sister
stapling her stomach and sucking
her thighs and hips off.
Here is a poem about my mother’s voice
getting older over the phone,
and gifts forgetting their address
and getting lost in the mail.
A poem about another couple of friends
who are no longer, as of last Sunday;
and another who stopped being
a few months before.
Here is a poem about days slipping
under the couch, and nights
not even good for sleeping;
a poem about not writing poems.
A poem about a few years
not worth writing about
or even remembering;
here’s a poem about not writing.
Here is even a poem
about not even writing to you,
because it would take words to do so,
and I am all out of them.