by Kevin Grauke
When you hear of my death the day after,
a plate of sockeye salmon will be sitting half-
eaten in your fridge behind the three beers
I left in October, the last time I saw you.
I know because tomorrow is the day after
and I’ve just gained the powers of the dead.
Your tears will weaken me but also bring
me comfort. Because it’s nice to be missed.
But do me a favor: throw out that fish.
It’s gone bad, invisibly, and I don’t want
you to get sick and join me. No, not yet.
Do, though, down those beers and put on
that song. You know the one—the one you
always said I turn up too loud. Then stop
crying and spin for me. Swirl and twirl. Because
after all this time, I’ve never seen you dance.
· · ·
[Kevin Grauke has published poems in The Threepenny Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Minnesota Review, Ninth Letter, and The Louisville Review, amongst others. He is the author of the short-story collections Shadows of Men and West of Destry, and a third short-story collection, Bullies & Cowards, is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press in late 2026. He has an MFA from Texas State University and now teaches at La Salle University in Philadelphia.]
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