Donald Justice has died twice:
once in Miami, in the sun, on a Sunday,
and once in Iowa City, on a Friday
in August, which was not without
its own sun--if not bright spot.
The first time he died, he was thinking
of Vallejo, who died in Paris, maybe
on a Thursday, surely in rain.
Vallejo died again in Paris,
in April, of an unknown illness
which may have been malaria,
as fictionalized in Bolano's
Monsieur Pain. "There is, brothers,
very much to do," Vallejo said
between his deaths, and Phil,
you must have died once
in Seville, in the land of Machado,
before going again last Saturday
in Fresno, so you no longer write
to us or bring in trash bins filled
with light. Phil, I will die, maybe
on a Sunday in Wellfleet, because
today it is Sunday, and ice
is jamming the eaves, and there
is nowhere to put the snow
that keeps recalling all
those other snows-
or the stones on more stones.

About This Poem
"I never know where a poem is headed, but I was thinking of Phil Levine. He was my teacher when I was a kid of nineteen, and his poetry, guidance, and encouragement meant/mean more than he'd have known."
-Andrea Cohen

About Andrea Cohen
Andrea Cohen is the author of "Furs Not Mine" (Four Way Books, 2015). She directs the Blacksmith House Poetry Series in Cambridge, Mass.


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The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.


(c) 2015 Andrea Cohen. Originally published by the Academy of American Poets, www.poets.org. Distributed by King Features Syndicate