This poem is for my dear friend, Cynthia, who died on April 26, 2014
Your number is still
on my speed dial,
and I continue to
check your horoscope
each week. I looked
for you at the coffee
shop yesterday,
surprised when you
didn’t walk in. What
has become of you,
my friend, and where
is it that we go when
we take leave of each
other? I feel you
between my bones,
breathing quietly,
as memories do.
Mary Sexson 