Atlas & Alice | Issue 3, Spring 2015
I Have Been With Ghosts so long I can see through my hands. A door closes. The knob melts. This is when the house flickers & goes out. I walk & walk a road river. Footsteps swim away. The stone shadows me. Faithful dog. I fall at the mountainâ€™s feet holding what cannot be held. Grief, uphill struggle, rolls back, crushes me in the morning fog, still in love with the pasture & trough, old oaks, & barn cats bathing on the long splintered fence still cantering around emptiness. Now cloudy cabochon moments, silent as dead sparrows, slip through my small hands. At night, I envy the moon, moving through the house that was always just sweet ice.
Issue 3 | Spring 2015