Erin J. Mullikin Dear 2009,
you’ve been both a good friend and catatonic lover. A pet I picked up from the side of the road. A tulip’s head tottering on its stalk as if to say both Yes and No. You, the dead year that gave me a new feeling, the one where I repeatedly told others, There is no place I want to be. But to say it and to be in it: that was innovative: the same reaction as when my dying dog stops and stares at a graveyard. I must confess: sometimes I drink entire bottles of cough syrup and champagne before getting into my car, mostly because I want to see how close I can get to you. I’ve both known you and not, and both of us have encircled the same house, the very one where I tried to save a life but couldn’t, not for all the breath in me nor (an admission here) the way I knew that a death was to be in store before I could leave the farm. You’re done and I can’t get you back, but like any animal, I can feed you still. I can get back on the correct side of the sun, and what do you have to say to that? 49