They are the voices
in your head
voices saying:
“I loved that book too!” and
“You think up great quizzes,” and
“Autumn is coming to Melbourne.”
They are hands
at distant keyboards,
hands busy typing:
“There’s going to be a sequel,” and
“I don’t know anyone else who reads her!” and
“Sometimes it’s hard going on.”
They are words
reaching through the screen
inscribed in glowing pixels:
“Thank you for posting,” and
“I hear what you’re saying,” and
“I feel like that too!”
When a voice becomes silence,
of death or of shunning,
lacunae leave echoes
“I reached out, but nothing” and
“The gulf spreading open,” and
“You’re gone. I still miss you.”
(For Jeanne Griggs, the Non-Necromancer, 15th March 2013)
