Middle Of Nowhere

THINGS TO LEARN FROM OTHERS' LIVES

Am American who shared my name
died last week, interrupting my internet
search for news about what, about me,
had stuck somewhere on the web, collecting flies.

Instead I got her notice and an invitation
to bring potluck salads and dessert
to share with the hot dogs
to be provided at her memorial.

Friends will all miss her presence,
shadows orphaned by the sun,
she’s called Jacqueline right through
until they say Jacque made them laugh.

Her short name brought her alive for me,
hot-dogs at her funeral, people laughing
at echoes of her jokes, at how rude
she'd be about their potluck salads.

She lived in the middle of nowhere,
different continent but I do too,
unoriginal, not made much of a mark
not even owning my own name,
she went home, at the end, went home,
knowing that wasn’t where she’d been.