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Too Blues-Able



I went to the graveyard,

not so much to visit you,

since you are always with me,

but to pay my respects to

the piece of my heart I left

in that box, full of dust that

used to be you. Used to be….


As I parked my car, the sky

opened up, and I heard you

laugh at this cosmic joke in

the back of my mind. Joke’s on

you, love. The rain brings life

back to the house of the dead,

and because of it, I can still

breathe as I walk these marble halls.


I find your niche, and I lean

against the wall facing it. I

slowly finish my hot cocoa,

and when I’m done, I place

my cup on the floor next to my

purse. No one else is here on

a rainy day—it’s just you and me.


I close my eyes, and suddenly

you’re standing right in front

of me. You place your hand on

my heart—people say mausoleums

are quiet places, but it’s loud here.

Above the screaming hawk in the

distance, and the crows laughing

back at him, I can hear the sound

of my own heart—“This,” you whisper,

“is very blues-able.”


You withdraw your hand from my

chest and extend it for me to take.

In a whirlwind, I am pressed against

your warm body, and you lead me

to the middle of the corridor where

the rain continues to fall.


Rivers of mascara run down my cheeks,

their flow encouraged by both my tears

and the rain. The inky solution drips

from my chin onto my white blouse

as you twirl me through millions

of perfect, frigid droplets.


We dance to the beat of my

broken heart—the best blues

comes from heartbreak, we both

know that. “Very blues-able,”

you whisper again. I feel your

warm body, your warm breath.

I listen to your heart as it

echoes through these marble walls.


Miles could have composed

this, and Ella would have moaned

and belted it out. The sound of

my own heart grows so loud

in my own ears, I can no longer hear

the arguing birds. I can’t hear

our footsteps on the cold marble

floor. Just this beat—this blues-able



You spin me so fast that I fly

away from you, and when I stumble

into the wall hiding your remains,

I open my eyes and find I am

alone again. Your niche is so

high up, I can’t touch it even

if I jump. It doesn’t matter—

you were never in there anyway.

Just that fragmented piece

of my crumbled heart.


I sob, not because you’re gone,

but because I can still feel the

warmth of your body where it

lingers on my skin. I sob, not

because you’re gone, but

because I can’t let you go.

I sob, of course because you’re

gone, and because I’ll never

let you go. Too blues-able.


Open Form

K. Dickinson



Categories: Uncategorized
  1. Jerry Kaidor
    December 6, 2012 at 2:34 pm

    I was going to ask if you felt his presence….

  2. wade dickinson
    December 6, 2012 at 5:23 pm

    Very beautiful, Daughter. My heart still aches for you and of course for all of us, but mostly for you, my beautiful little girl that somehow got all growed up.

    I’ve always loved the rain and now I know a little more about why that is, Thanks.


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