Logan Seidl


I died when you retired
the guitar solo. I died before

reading a nutrition label,
before lowering expectations,

before collecting a pile
of neckties, before remembering

where I was born.
I died with an iPhone

under the skin of my palm
and with your name stained

on my ring finger, with the cruise control on
and on heated seats.

On the 22 slot of the roulette wheel,
according to the halved map,

as expected, I died—despite the exit polls.
I died hungry,

without a fishbowl on my desk,
without the Atlantic sea on my face.

After I died, we became closer
and decided where to eat.

Before I died, Bob Ross taught us
how to listen, not paint.

Unlike a transplant, I died
among your favorite flower-the lily.

Logan Seidl is a graduate from the University of Nevada, Reno. Recently, he has won the DQ Award in both fiction and poetry, and the James H. MacMillan Scholarship for poetry/fiction written about Nevada. His poetry has been published in The Kentucky Review, Crab Creek Review and The Meadow.

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