Yearbook: A Found Poem

“There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face.”
—William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Black and white is better.
A chance to sing
with the prettiest
soccer player he ever coached is best

between the pipes. The choral
room fades into a late-night debate
séance. A rude awakening—you
were no challenge to her

even before she got so lonely
on her mountain. Did you get your kiss
beside a pile of broken
chairs? Behind another brick

in the wall? Bonfire flames
and umbrella silhouettes
become an unfinished
symphony. The egg

drop comes before those fish drawn
on their foreheads in crayon. You make me long

for the artless construction
of your face.

Off Sides

What if it was a mistake? You
were to call me and yell into your town’s last land
line, “I’m not dead dear. Stop

spreading those rumors.” Cremated
or buried—cremated and buried. Bridges
open avenues to nonchalance. Back

to the world, a quick flick of the left wrist

and release. Undo that—can’t be done.