Eva Moe

Tag: death

  • Gone long | Ben

    Travelers always talk about returning home to find that everything’s the same. How odd, they say (I’ve said), that you can experience so much elsewhere and upon opening that front door back home, nothing’s changed except you and your perception.

    Sometimes you’re gone a long time, though, and too much happens. Part of being in the community is physical presence, and you can lose that. And sometimes, before you even return, you know that things are not the same at all.

    Ben

    I call and we catch up
    on video chat. Your friends
    got robbed and 4th of July
    was too loud to hear the
    bonfire, and my roommate
    doesn’t eat vegetables.
    When it’s time to talk
    about our friend, the reason
    I called. Both of us loosen
    our gaze somewhere past
    the phones. He was
    doing so well, too.

  • YOU vs ME part 3: LEAVING EVERYTHING

    Click on the cover or right here to read part 3

    “Leaving Everything” is the third chapter of the four-part poetry series, You vs. Me.

    Other titles in this series:
    Part 1: Honestly
    Part 2: You’re Better Off
    Part 4: Behind

    Buy the book here

    Thanks for reading!
    Eva

  • The Red Dawn | La Madrugada Roja quickwrite

    I’m sorry but I can’t write a poem for you. There was nothing beautiful about your death I wasn’t even there, I heard about it on Snapchat when our buds were at your wake & thought how fuckin lame is my relationship with my friends that I’m the last to know & then I thought you’d give me a big ole smack of words, you destroyer, for making your absence about me. I can’t write about it, I’m sorry. Every literary device I throw down sits in my mouth like raw garlic & nothin’s sweet or sour, Madrugada. What’d you do when they told ya? look in the mirror & tell your brain “you bastard”? look at your hands & wish they could fish hook it out of your skull like a scab? Did you deny your body’s betrayal or did you find it consistent? I can’t put it together. You know when the chemistry teacher says a gas will expand to fit its container? It’s just like that. All I wanna do is turn these poetic particles into liquid so at least they’d flow like the rushing stream of your memory but I’m all dried up. All I could do was pour Bacardi down the sink, I gave you two shots but didn’t tell because my roommate was callous and would hound me for wasting alcohol. I thought about you in Malaysia during a sunrise & spoke your name, La Madrugada Roja. You died seven months ago but this is the best I could do.