Megan Eaves

a poem i wrote on this night last year. 

i wanted to write a poem
about 2016
for awhile, but then nothing came.
i waited, watched deathly hollows two,
felt the weight of severus’ death this year
and all the others
and the coming one so and too soon,
then took myself to twitter
to expel the need for some kind of
resolution.

spent the year
swirling around in mysteries
the enigmas of san lorenzo
and his ancient street
and his bratwurst mile

and so it begins again, all at sea,
with more questions than answers,
a weight
prequel to the one to come.

sure, i’m not a poet
and despite this year of lyrics
the twelve month’s best words –
and the only ones i’ve written worth
uttering on a cold rooftop, or a serviced apartment
with the aircon on at new year’s –

were always about you.