h.

by kvennarad

“We are constantly doing things for
..the last time. The last thing I saw
..was the red of the field before I lay

..down in sleep and woke up in sleep
..– something my placard will never
..tell you in lieu of a barebones story.

..My eyes dying is a reminder to you
..all, that there will be a last time that
..you’ll toss a coin into my old cap.”

:

The painted bird glides, sure as a coat
of rust, down Simile Street, avoiding
the maw and teeth in the darkness of
Metaphor Alley; when we find a burned
-out car, we see if we can see a star from
where we found the car or, travelling on,
regard and remark the gutter-piling of
grey dust, bays and inlets, coastal hills
of an imagined nation, the land of loss.

:

She feels an unsung wife on an unsafe
wire, but moves through the fair taking
in the unfairness; she pauses, considers

buying a calendar, sees its squareness,
how each day’s a place for a chessman;
only then she knows to make a knight’s

move without taking a step, opposite in
a set of six! Only there she knows love,
how it stands in a flow and braves loss.

__________

jupiter©Marie Marshall

Advertisements