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This poem won 1st prize in the 1998 Newburyport Art
Association's Poetry Contest.



Our Murder


The deadest smile that ever scaled a face

Was brighter than these pale white, empty walls.

Worn tracks of furniture I can't replace

Haunt me like stale regrets.  Some nights she calls

Entangled in old dreams that still defy

Our sensible despair.  The phones that twist

Our voices close present the fleeting lie

That we still share some space.  But soon, the list

Of practical absurditiesóthe mail,

Lawyers' fees, locks on doorsódraws out the heat

Behind cool phrases.  And then our voices fail

As silence settles on us like defeat.

Our talking now is just a hollow show;

We murdered conversation weeks ago.


Jeff Holt



© 1999; originally printed in The Cumberland Poetry
.  Reprinted by permission of the author.



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