Unfinished Poems

by James Miraflor

I

My unfinished poems lie together

with the clutter of my finished poems, 

like old friends waiting from afar.

They do not demand to be finished; 

they are only to watch in awe, 

in puzzlement, or in disgust,

the work that I did with my 

finished poems.

But they, 

who had been witness to the pains 

the amoral world wrought me, 

had been more loyal to me 

than dogs can ever be to 

their masters.

Had they been alive, 

they would have loved me.

Had they been dead, 

I would have seen my name printed 

in their carcasses waiting

to be read.

But they will not leave me, 

as human friends do of their 

human friends, 

or human lovers do of their 

human lovers.

My friends,

they will not leave me.

II

Sometimes, when I'm alone, 

I browse through them, 

only to remember how 

the savagery of my frailty 

commanded them, in the 

shrillest of voices,

to assert the last of

my humanity.

And the humanity I lacked,

they spoke of, in the most

human a way their aborted

existence could manage.

So much so, 

that I imagine them

capable of love. 

So much so,

that I could feel the last

of their life in the beat of

my heart.