greum maol stevenson

death

This evening I reread Sam Hamill’s poem The Orchid Flower. I corresponded with him for years, though we never met. He is among the people who have died whom I cannot bring myself to delete from my email contacts, for reasons I do not understand. When he died in 2018, I wrote this poem:

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spicebush swallowtail butterfly

For two years, I lived on the edge of woods, on the outskirts of Chattanooga, Tennessee, between a sewage plant, an American Indian burial ground, and the state mental hospital.

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Despite the denial, it is hard to be unaware of death if you pay attention when you walk around Glasgow.

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