I have a friend who I do not see very much. We have known each other for a very long time, but we are also newly acquainted these past few years. We are also falling out of touch. First her schedule, then mine, then the boy, then trouble, always trouble. Am I reaching out or mourning her loss? Is the very idea of writing poetry too full of the bitter taste of my mother and Emily Dickinson’s Black Cake and also of her?

Last night, no, the night before, we read her poetry aloud in bed. I thought about writing something like this.