Dear Shannon,
I want to write you a poem.
A eulogy, really.
But I didn't know you.
I made plans to befriend you in Madison this summer.
I have a copy of your final chapbook.
It might even be signed, I don't remember.
I've told my friends that you died.
I keep thinking if I say it over and over again,
I might believe it.
The way I'm picturing it,
your tattoos started to glow
until they were so white-hot
your mother had to look away
so she wouldn't see the wings
bursting from your skin
like the breath she was praying for.
Journey on, sweet poet.
~Dane
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