Elegy for Linda Bishop
by JONATHAN TREECE
I imagine she sat tilted over the only functioning heating vent,
unkempt and scanning the room with wildly rolling
eyes. I see her surrounded by brown apple cores and spiral
notebooks; her script covering them like wild animal tracks.
Dangling from her right hand is a pencil, in her left
sits a withered piece of fruit like an audacious offering,
like Eve's heart to an ungracious Adam.
Not many but those who buried her, and the one
who peered through the dirty, frosted window
that May, will remember her; but she lived and died
waiting for a man she never knew, counting
4’s, watching clouds, and naming birds.
In the providence of the otherwise occupied God
to whom she prayed, I see every core as an unkind metaphor,
and every seed as a period in an ellipsis
drawing off to an unobserved conclusion.
JONATHAN TREECE is an award-winning editor, poet, and playwright. He has been published in Backbone Mountain Review and Apeiron Review. He lives in Cumberland, Maryland with his wife.