In memory

I often think about Claire

I say to myself, my little e “Claire”

I think these terrible thoughts in Russian accents

And hide my sorrow in the shroud of night

 

I often wonder about death and all her demises

What she might use to seduce, confuse, cause suicide

I think about my past, my present

But very rarely dare to hope for a future

 

I often think about the great things Claire might have done

After all,

She met the president

Rode in planes

Had relatives with horses that galloped on bigger planes

 

I often think of how her hair was blonde and angry

But somehow smiled so genuine

 

I often pray her soul is safe

 

And beg for God’s forgiveness

For I have known how dark the nights are

How dark the roads get

How fast the cars go

How deep the drinks feed

And yet, God has preserved my soul

And yet, little sense can I make of such great things

As life

As death

As knowing

What it is like

To drive.

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