Open Letter On My Wasted Years
The days bright
shininess of wishes.
The shelf of useless
So I made
So the unplaceables
the gnawed cobweb
maze of the brain,
In the gnawed
of the brain.
I said this
In an auditorium
can I remember
I could not see
More Notes On Not Yet
Failed April left to sort itself from itself.
This month my friends are gone: left to butterfly-chase
ideas. Leave behind all us the slumpers.
I belong here if could be said anywhere.
In a house of old slumbers not quite scrubbed out.
With all that could grow not quite grown or quite lost.
With the moment and named face peeled off.
What to keep from the scum of a mind if anything.
All futures might lean away from you. Let them. Leave
dusk to trickle to dusk.
I have a day with all the ever scraped out.
The door shut on the box of work.
The rest of the evening with its torment of green.
Half the town up and leave
come some season
where are they going
what was there in the dregs of this season
not anymore there
Shamala Gallagher is the author of a chapbook, I Learned the Language of Barbs and Sparks No One Spoke (dancing girl press). Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Black Warrior Review, The Missouri Review, Verse Daily, VOLT, Copper Nickel, The Offing, and elsewhere. She is a Kundiman fellow and a graduate of the Michener Center for Writers, and she lives in Athens, Georgia, where she is pursuing a PhD in English and Creative Writing at the University of Georgia.