I'm in a rule-lined room.
I know it when a woman
In the third row shouts out,
Pedagogy! without having
Been asked. There's the slow shuffle
Of arthritis. Every foot is weak.
Yes, yes. I quite agree. Method.
Nothing without a sound method.
Their voices sound like burning paper.
Like red ink. Like quizzes.
One voice sounds like a triangle.
One ting. We hear it.
She Was a Good Singer
She was a good singer
And a good guitar-player.
She played a Guild,
Like my brother.
She died of cancer.
When I listen to her,
Not often, I see I was wrong.
My brother, whom I thought
Was great, really never did
Any better. His death
Two years ago didn't leave
Any waste. Hers didn't either.
Usually, you can't mourn anybody
You don't remember.
Marc Petersen is the author of the chapbook This is My Brother Talking. Since 2005, he's been writing We Paid for the Fence, a book of accounts.