by A.E. Loveridge

Because the photograph keeps us still and young on the bookcase,
because some saints go uncanonized,
because pigeons and angels have wings,
because we are made of meat and bones,
because we will all be reduced to our most commonly used definition,
because definitions change like children,
because one day would be another without a name,
because we didn’t give them their names,
because we choose to call them by those names,
because we didn’t name the pigeons on the sidewalk,
because you drag the sack of you into the city most days,
because you can play piano, saxophone, and basketball, but don’t,
because we all can do things, but don’t,
because the pillow smells like your baked bread head when you go,
because nobody knows a body alone, unfurled like a cape on the couch,
because of my body thrown down on the leaves,
because the days we didn’t name are long and carve out our bodies,
because the light falls down at the end of days like locusts,
because I didn’t give you your name,
because my hands are butchers carving the days from your back,
I name each bone through your tender meat.

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A. E. Loveridge’s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in The Tulane Review, The Southern Women’s Review, The New Yinzer, and anthologized by Carlow University Press. Her literary fiction chapbook,Congregation, was published by Little Book Publications in 2008. An Atlanta, GA native and 2009 Bread Loaf contributor, she now lives in Pittsburgh, PA.