Pilot Light
A Journal of 21st Century Poetics and Criticism
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Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
(Continued from Page 5)
I’ve played the slave narratives 
in abandoned places —
among the candles 
and cinderblocks.

Silo, dirt, house 
where the vultures live.  

All to bring you back. 

There’s a shopping mall 
where your anvil stood. 

I bought socks, a button-down shirt,
and sat in the parking lot listening
to the corroded wax cylinders —
disintegrating dialects 
becoming a column of air 
anyone can pass through.

I never deserved to hear them.  

(Continue to Page 7)