Magi Loucks

LetterstoDGL: shock

Magi Loucks headshot

I think that I am still in shock. Nothing seems to make sense to me. I have seen the grave, yet it all eludes me. I think of my own death almost constantly, now unsure of my previous belief that I would die before __. Perhaps, after, that did come true.

Even my life’s present turmoil seems tiny. It can’t be David – my mind and heart cry – David, David, David! No, that’s too close.

I think of those that did this, that took him, and feel at most, pity. 1 or 2 brief spasms of rage have passed, but mostly pity. Perhaps that, too, is a stage.

A torrent fills my soul; a storm occupies the space where my heart once was; a blistering migraine has replaced my brain. I feel nothing. A sickness coming over me that needs to be expelled, exorcised – an anger, a grief I don’t dare feel for by god I’ll supernova.

His songs are in my ears and on my lips – ones I wanted to record – we – but now couldn’t possibly.

I’m stuck in a re-run I can’t turn off.


LetterstoDGL: beach

Magi Loucks headshot

How strange that at this picture*, I am actually at a beach. I’ve missed sunset, but the sky is still blushing over the Olympics.

People are out here, living: frisbee, volleyball, even two children playing tag with a dog. And I sit here alone, and wonder when the pain will end.

The once soothing waves now seem to be repeating a mantra of “death, death, death.” I’m half waiting for them to engulf me.  Hoping.  Did I use that word? Yes.  Hope only makes sense when the situation is hopeless, to paraphrase Greeley. And what is it exactly I’m hoping for?  It’s too late now.

A boy just threw a chunk of wood into the water. It bobbed, was tossed, then repeated the process.  It’s slowly working its way up the beach. Why does that make me cry?




*the opposing page of the journal is a photograph of a beach, the tide in.

LetterstoDGL: beach…

Magi Loucks headshot

There are many small children here at this late hour, running barefoot in the sand, jumping in the waves, shrieking with glee at the cold. I think of all the years I missed, could never have, and my vision blurs. He would’ve been quite a terror then.

The sky continues to turn red, and I think of his face as the last grasps, gasps for breath racked his body. God, let him sleep it all away.

The sun over the mountains is like a lure, showing me a path, red, but stopping on top of the waves. To where?

The sun hasn’t set yet, it’s just been hiding behind these dark clouds. Can’t you let me have grief? A Pepsi mixed with roughly 6 shots of Jamesons, and nothing. Can’t I sleep, please? It doesn’t even take the edge off. Stupid, immature, but God, I need a break from all this. Please let me sleep!

The sky is now even more beautiful. Damn it, the loss.

I look at the mountains and the kiss of red fading behind them and feel forever. The abyss of the sky seems so engulfing, not the flat blue of my childhood.


LetterstoDGL: lines

Magi Loucks headshot

I keep remember one line from “All’s Well”
“There is no living, none”
Not even a line, really, just a phrase
Still, it repeats throughout my consciousness
surprising me throughout the day
like the hail from the once blue sky
in April.
All is so different now.


LetterstoDGL: grave

Magi Loucks headshot

I write knowing why the situation has presented itself, and yet
it’s not real
I’ve stood over your grave
I’ve touched your casket
I’ve imagined your headstone
but it’s too unbearable

I laminated your mass card
a few newspaper articles
seeing your name is a distant act
an English major reading another
famous work of fiction
an odd name coincidence
an event of years, decades past
then my heart withers within my chest
the heavy echo is replaced with a dull whimper
and I know
our family pictures will always be short one


LetterstoDGL: cry

Magi Loucks headshot

I find myself crying just to cry
the pain too strong to feel
I need the physical release that its
constant presence demands

Mom found a picture from ________
You were the New David then
calm, self possessed, a grown up.
I stare at your hands clasped together
marveling that you weren’t screwing around

The sickness of those that
tied those hands
the depravity of those that
beat you

I feel sick
the atrocity  the horror
the incompetence