|Jul/Aug 2016 Poetry Special Feature|
Photographic Artwork by Victoria Mlady
I've come to realize that pain is a cunning thing,
it consorts with tears made from liquid ice.
On a morning walk
I recognize summer tailings.
The brightness of autumn seems distasteful,
copper-pot leaves are far too vivid
for my wishy-washy world.
Pace slackens; the home-run grabs at heels.
Gate clicks open.
I analyze the path,
count the weeds among the maze of pavers—
tactics for delayed entry.
a cold breeze sneezes
its way through every room,
a familiar tread only pretends
to walk in sunlight
streaming through French doors.
Time is jilted.
Sadness is content to loom with insistence.
Day spreads into the guts of night for another solo parade.
I long to watch a full moon lifted by regular snores,
feel fingertips in my hair,
pluck music from a raspy voice.
Don't tell me to collect memories,
or surrender to a renovated world.
I write his name
on bedroom walls,
above the bathroom mirror,
on every dining room chair,
in calligraphy down the hallway.
I use indelible ink.