Correction

The notebook was buried under a stack

of tax forms and old magazines.

I pulled it out and felt the thwack

of eleven years and the spaces between.

I wrote about the way the wind felt

like a hand on the back of my neck.

You took your pen and made the words melt,

turning my work into a red-lined wreck.

'Illogical,' you wrote in a slanted hand,

and 'dramatic' across the final verse.

You drew a 'C' like a brand

and made the silence a kind of curse.

I stopped the car. I stopped the pen.

I let the engine of the feeling stall.

I’m looking at your ink again,

and wondering why I believed you at all.