I often look back at my poems
My perfectly compiled and typed poems
splashed with Marianna’s critiques
Scribbles that nobody could translate
An embodiment of her spirit;
A perfectly incomprehensible storm of words
that often only made sense to her.
A storm of color, and mischief
that could not be reckoned with
To know her was to know compassion
to know her was to be unsure
of all of the matter-of-fact things in the world
I only wish I had known her
for a moment longer
For life would’ve been
a bit more curious