My Dead Friends

By Marie Howe

My friends are dead who were

the arches the pillars of my life

the structural relief when

the world gave none.

My friends who knew me as I knew them

their bodies folded into the ground or burnt to ash.

If I got on my knees

might I lift my life as a turtle carries her home?

Who if I cried out would hear me?

My friends—with whom I might have spoken of this—are gone.

This Poem Features In: