We go together
like Methodists and poker,
like bars and bad marriages.
The goodness of spouses,
black coffee and confession
I imagine receiving postcards
from the afterlife:
I don’t miss you but I’m waiting for you.
I’m counting the days
but I can’t tell you the number.
Your dad says hi. He’s playing softball.
I joined the choir.
Thick-ankled girls dance in cotton skirts
like cotton candy clouds,
Dance with a Dutch girl
and your sleep will be easy.
Amazing again! Love the postcard from heaven and the insight about dancing with Dutch girls!
Your poems nestle beautifully here in The Reformed Journal. Irresolvable complexity in gentle cadences and musicality of sound. I may have to pretend Julie is Dutch when next we dance.