The Factory - Sept. 26, 2025

she was my poetry teacher for more than

ten years, meeting weekly Wednesdays

seeing her face, hearing her voice,

branded by familiar gestures

and then one day there was a hole in

space, she was gone, a life evaporated,

my old expectations hung on till

they also ghosted away

that’s what I notice about death -

the disappearance of a presence

is so abrupt, like a heavy rain when it

stops or a tree falling at night

seems our lives are continually shuffled

in and out of existence by a factory that

extract souls and a recycling center

that breaks down flesh and bones

I hate to sound unfeeling, but

the dead would want us to go on

living till it’s our turn to leave a hole

our turn to remind others

it’s not a cold soul that lets go