I haunt you because I love you.
You are constantly surprised by this.
I am made of papier-mâché.
You have dreamt of this before, a serious
matter. You delight
in torment. We were made
for this. I live in an overturned Mason jar.
You must handle me gently, but you wish to carry
me in a satchel, where I will rattle
like broken shells or loose keys.
I throw my voice; it is carried on a rain cloud;
It’s the sound of heavy truck tires grinding gravel.
I play a hollow bone whistle. Thus.
If you lose me, you can find me
by the water’s edge, in a shed of discarded
chicken wire and plasterboard.
There are symbols etched onto my ribs
but I do not know why.
This is our anniversary. Across the tracks,
on the silty bank.

|||

Paul-Victor Winters, a long-time contributor to The Literary Review and a tireless and wise reader on our masthead, was a poet and teacher in New Jersey. He passed away this week. We will miss him very much.

The poem, “Anniversary,” first appeared in TLR: Emo, Meet Hole.