Untitled #9

I stopped playing. Instead,
I lit the tree on fire.

Shoelaces tied with hair
too long to find the lost texts.

And he said, “I’ll play you a song,
tonight only” and in your dreams
of wrappers and Styrofoam you’ll play,
but only for a minute.

I dreamt that I could play again:
song lists scrawled in black ink
and mixed tapes unraveling.

And you stopped calling
two years and seven months ago.

Ann Blackburn is a poet. Her work has previously appeared in Maudlin House, Crack the Spine, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere. She is currently working on her manuscript. Her website can be found at https://www.annblackburnpoetry.com.

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