L’image de Fine Art

how will we kill each other, my love?
like the americans do:
with longevity and perfectly manicured yards
holding hands on our lawn chairs
melting alive in the florida heat
singing god bless america
until we get a new president.

but your hands are sweaty,
and i never had a backyard in new york,
and i truly prefer winter,
and i never cared for that little tune —
i have forgotten who runs the country.

M.W.

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O’Canada

Dearest stranger,

Long time no see.
It’s pretty here,
quiet, but beautiful.

I’m sorry for leaving
when I did.

I think I wished to preserve you,
before longevity
eventually rotted you away.

So I will ask you once more:
Is this goodbye again,
or simply good night?

I suppose it is neither –
merely a feeble attempt
of justifying loss
with smeared pen ink.

I want you to know
your amber frame
lies perfectly entombed,
in a museum
of lovers
who could never be lovers.

SIGNED M.W.

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Mathilde Wilkie

Mathilde Wilkie

Writing for the sake of writing, or something like that