Wednesday, June 17, 2015


cropped and digitally modified from photo found at

by Michael L. Newell

When you say, "I'm leaving,"
and begin to sob,

I feel a strange elation,
not for your departure,
but for your crumpled face.

I say, "Stay, stay,"
and press you tight;
I am a child squeezing
hot laundry to his face.


Amputees still feel
severed limbs--

how long will my left arm
remember your weight?

~ originally published in Poetry/LA (1984)