Ike Untitled poems Poem, by Luke Bensing, at My poetic side

A little warm today,
the kind of day where
you walk crooked
to stay in the shade
without looking suspicious.

A spring chill still lingers
like a ghost that doesn’t know
it’s time to leave,
but the sun insists
on taking off its coat anyway.

Behind his ears,
the sweat begins its sermon.
keep the hat on—
navy blue, winter loyal—
though it hides
the retreating soldiers of his hairline.

At twenty-six
He is already losing
small parts of himself.
A battlefield
that no one else can see,
except in photos
and bathroom mirrors.

he wonders
if he can wear
a disguise forever.

Eleanor and Ed
played tennis racket guitars
to Poison in the living room,
two bright sparks
in a trailer park twilight.

Their laughter
was the sound of freedom—
mine, the quiet
of a cracked windowpane.

I was always the fog,
they were always
the sunlight behind it.

I remember the Kool-Aid,
sticky red on my hand,
and their joy,
so unashamed it made me ache.

How do some people
always see the sun,
even when it hides?
I could never remember
where I’d last put mine.

A March wind
that cuts through cotton gloves,
clouds stacked
like bruises over the hills.

If this were a movie,
the camera would pull back—
my coat tails flapping,
the casket sinking,
the dirt closing in.

But this isn’t a movie.
It’s a cold afternoon,
and his hands
are deep in his pockets.

His sister’s gone already.
His brother’s gone for good.

I think about that phrase—
“you’re dead to me.”
What does it mean
when everyone already is,
and you are too,
just not officially?

My phone rings twice—
once with a scam,
once with a ghost.

Hey bro,
I forgive you.
Don’t be so hard on yourself.
I love you.

The words fall through me
like light through a hole
in the clouds.

Two years gone,
and yet the timestamp says
last Thursday.

Maybe time
isn’t a straight line.
Maybe it’s
a voicemail
that never finished sending.

I play it again.
And again.
And again.

Until the silence
becomes
a kind of forgiveness.