in memory of George Stewart
It casually loiters in the fourth line
of April, pretending not to stalk me,
the expiry date on David's passport
and the start of a trade fair in Brussels.
It knows full well you chose your namesake's day
to die, as if you were somehow afraid
I might forget. As if I ever could.
from The Knives of Villalejo (Eyewear Publishing, 2017)
I began submitting poems to poetry magazines eight or nine years ago. I went about choosing where to submit by looking at listings such as those published ...