Subhaga Crystal Bacon

Weeks after you died, a song sparrow arrived
by mail, small collector’s card from a series
made by Arm & Hammer, with cleaning tips

on its back. A poet sent it. She said it reminded
her of you. By a kind of transference, it does me
too. It’s perched by that silly picture of you,

mouth agape in a laughing howl, drying your hair
one night in our MFA dorms before the midterm
dance. Recently, I heard the Talking Heads

in the local coffee shop. Sharp as a knife, facts
cut a hole in us. Back I went to that awful gym
with the lights out, all of us hopping and grinding

away our personal griefs. We all believed suffering
made good art. There was heroin. A bare chested
boy in snow looking for beer. Liaisons and rifts.

Tip: Baking soda is a natural way to clean.
Fact: if you mix it with vinegar, it explodes.
There’s an essay on the new ethos of fear

in writing workshops. It’s not a success
unless someone cries. Once a woman ran
from the room, didn’t return.