I write one poem a year. Usually, I write more than one Web-site entry a year (as some of you can attest). After 9/11 last year I burrowed into school, turning thirty, then Christmas, then school again. And even before that — for I have been woefully neglectful, dear reader — things fell apart two years ago and I moved away. Alex and I had limited contact for a while until early last year. Alex died on March 27, 2002. The friend who’d introduced me to him in the first place told me early morning on Good Friday. You probably won’t believe that same afternoon my cousin crashed to the floor and died too, but it’s the truth. “Of a long illness” is apt but no consolation for either loss. Grief isn’t a feeling I wanted to vent on my Web page. Six months later I’ve past on-the-mend, approaching upswing, albeit fatter from my chocolate-and-wine diet. But I feel, dare I say it? Happy. Cross your fingers that it holds for a while, wouldja? Love, Motormouth