David Spicer

has published poems in Tipton Poetry Journal, Synaeresis, Chiron Review, Remington Review, unbroken, Raw, Third Wednesday, and elsewhere. Nominated for a Best of the Net three times and a Pushcart, he is author of one full-length poetry collection, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke's Press). His latest chapbook is From the Wings of a Pear Tree (Flutter Press).


Epistle To G

G, the couple warned you in the Roosevelt
Hotel elevator that Awards Night thirty years
ago: Girl, your editor’s a P.O.W.
P.O.W.? you asked. Piece of work. He’ll burn
you hotter than a Tucson lover in August
and barbeque your heart.
You told me that story,
but we wandered New York all weekend
during a three-day poetry-love affair.
In your room we discussed Yeats versus Keats
and earthquakes of wisdom some seek
in words. You told me of collecting
the recordings of men you stopped loving,
like Mexican cokes. After the wine
spilled on the beige carpet, we laughed
at cupids on the wallpaper. The lamp
flickered like the strip club sign
across the street. I inhaled your rose perfume
and you fell into my brown eyes—
They’re deeper than Carlsbad, you said.
Then we said goodbye, held each other
until the plane almost closed its door,
and I wished you had chosen me over Chicago.
We wrote for months, my address
changed, delayed your doodled letters.
I didn’t answer them and you stopped writing.
Decades later I regretted verifying the couple’s
prophecy. I sent you a postcard, spoke
deeper and slower than Nick Cave
to the machine of voices in your foyer.
I don’t blame you for ignoring my mea culpa, G,
but the reason I stopped writing?
I threw away a state of mind I loved no longer,
that no longer loved me, stopped catering
to my ego. My passion ran away from me
like a skittish cat. Sometimes, that’s all we have
anymore, G: the passion that appears,
deserts us, and returns, a boomerang on fire.