The things I forget are simple. Not your face,
Or the color of your eyes (blue, with hints
Of grey and gold, like the sea at dawn.)
I forget the sound of birds marking the dawn,
the taste of salt, the touch of sun on my face.
I forget the shape of us. You left me only hints:
The tree outside my window that hints
of tangled limbs; the deep shadows at dawn;
the clouds that hide the moon’s face.
I face the sea, scour it for hints of you. Dawn is just a simple thing.
A gauntlet was thrown among the YeahWrite editors: it’s a tritina slam this week! Check out the other entries on the fiction|poetry grid. (Click the badge below.)
Dawn is a grey cat.
Watch: even the frost-limned leaves
Barely make a stir.
When you’re gone
my shoelaces come undone
I drop my keys
the kettle boils over
When you’re gone
the silk of my shirt
drags over the sore places
like the memory of teeth
Do you see it? That red glow,
low and clinging to the horizon,
unnerving in its ambiguity.
Even the stars recoil.
Oil and water, earth and sky—
I cannot reconcile them,
Embattled as they are—
Ardent and unmanned.
And so my children learn their place:
asymmetrical, the scales of power.
Were you about to argue?
You, with your injured pride?
I’d hold my tongue, if I were you.
You have nothing to fear.
In which I attempt an echo poem, which is harder than it seems. This one may have run off the rails a bit…
The day you gave a rose to me
the sun was bright, the sky was clear.
I kept that rose another year,
despite its sweet fragility.
The sun was pale, the sky was grey
when winter brought its weight to bear.
The frost could not be swayed to spare
The rose you gave to me that day.
A memoriam stanza – well, two stanzas, really.