Angie

It’s the day she lost her imaginary friend Angie.

That day, that day in June, chill of

spring flinging itself onto its bed of

prairie flowers and so winsome was her

look when she declared,

Angie died. She’s dead.

And returned calmly to her dolls.

We had lived with her for

three long years. Held teas with Beady,

the imaginary friend of the

imaginary friend. That damp day

in the campground we got the

news. Smoke smells trail in my sweatshirt yet.

A call of despair, the loons confirmed it.

Angie, they cooed from across the lake.

From the source of the Mississippi River,

those few stones holding it in place quivering

in the flow of cold water.

Angie, Angie they call. Haunting, is it

not?

So, we remember you fondly

you wisp of memory you gazelle

of the forest you laugher you lover

you mother you child you friend. You

future, you life lived, you ending.

Angie.