portion of the artwork for Theo LeGro's poetry

Dear John
Theo LeGro

I don’t know anything about love except what it makes me willing to destroy.
I thought to love you was to search for you after you were gone.

//

Late night, fingers humming above the keyboard, I revise and revise and revise and never send some version of
I was thinking about you / I was thinking about you / again / I found you / again / in the dark / digging through the Internet /
for night blooming flowers / the color red / Coney Island / why I can’t stop / your name / a common name / again


//

There is an exquisite pain in imagining your future. I lick my wounds and conjure her: someone brave, very
beautiful, who will open jars for your mother when her bad arm hurts, and lick sweat from the hollow of your throat
when you walk into her arms after mowing the lawn, smelling like every green thing I tried to grow and failed to keep alive.

//

One idea that strikes me dumb with terror: that the rest of my life will slide like a rope lowered inch by inch
out the window of a tower. I will descend from ache to ache. You won’t be at the bottom, or anywhere.

//

The longer it’s been, the tighter my memory grips what it can. How you opened all my beer cans. How I could never tell you
the right way home. The night warm as skin in the front seat of your car, your hand gentle at my throat, my legs falling
open in the lampless dark. The gleaming geese dappling the lake’s broad blue chest. That song you sent me.
Would it be love, if you were the last thing I ever remembered? Would it matter?


Table of Contents | Return to Poem Directory



FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 59 | Spring/Summer 2022