by Susanna Spearman
The needle tears a hole, the old familiar sting
Pain is the language of poets, though not all of us are fluent
Put one foot in front of the other ‘til the road runs out I started this poem before you died, I am finishing it after
Even before he told me, I knew
The day you left us, I wanted to learn how to make tiramisu or how to write a sestina
All are from the dust, and to dust all return What a life, what a life, that your ending renders us hungry to create. 33
Pegasus 