We Understood Each Other
After years together & years apart &
years like pausing a tedious film,
we recognized subtle sides, insides,
insights, what made you you & me me.
My embarrassment, your success—
you wrote a book, which I applauded—
warmth overwhelmed me, joy
as though your new self-worth were mine.
We left no room for politics, religions,
past offenses; all was praise & accord.
Gone: divorce, incarceration,
grief. We understood each other
for the first time in this happiest dream
from which I awakened flushed
in the dark, damp, unrelenting
basement of my life.
~~~~~
Don’t Fear the Reaper
I’ve spent three years waiting to die from this
virus,
taking precautions, stepping aside
from a happy life
in corner stages of bookstores, bars, coffee shops.
Now that I have it:
relief.
Perhaps it has come to collect the debt
for years I gambled
on pizza & cigarettes, strong narcotics.
My death has been with me all along,
throwing a neighborly wave
when I step outside to grab the paper.
It’s not a stranger,
though I never invite it to my parties.
It slips in uninvited with a Bundt cake &
virus,
singing along to my hymn of sighs.
That’s fine, I say. Let’s slow-dance.
Won’t know until later which of us leads.
Ace Boggess is author of eight books of poetry, most recently Tell Us How to Live (Fernwood Press,
2025) and My Pandemic / Gratitude List (Mōtus Audāx Press, 2025). His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Hanging Loose, and other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.
