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On the Death of W. D. Snodgrass – We all have our Seasons
by Lynn Cohen
You loved blondes with blue eyes
replaced them when they turned wives
forty-five to my 19
I was Larissa
in that near Russian winter
defying your misogyny
I navigated ice tunnels and became my future:
Moved away and continued to write
questing for an inspirational chalice
addicted muse
holier than thou grail
and found you on every rail
on the trail of summer;
the tail end of late autumn
in each turning of the equinox
in Indiana late one February
on Long Island in his alcohol-laced lips
in His November kisses
cold by sleet time.
But now that you are gone
I will know when you try to reappear in another form.
I will sacrifice the poems
for sleep
And self-induced suffering is no longer a treat –
for I am older than you when we met.
Yet very much saddened by your death.