10/7/22
The Clothes Pin - Jane Kenyon
9/24/22
Next Second, You Were Gone - Randall Stephens
Where people would go to have imaginary conversations
At first, I found it foolish
And then I joined the queue.
When my turn came, I dialled your old number.
There was no ringtone, but I told you everything
and I waited in silence
as if you might respond.
I thought I heard you breathe.
Then I remembered they told me my life should go on.
One second, you were here.
9/4/22
7/12/22
The Derelict - Sharon Olds
8/31/21
The Great Gulf - Richard Shelton
Between us and you there is a
great gulf fixed: so that they
which would pass from hence to you
cannot; neither can they pass to us,
that would come from thence.
Luke 16:26
1
At night when each dark shape in the desert
glows in the light of its own penumbra
I take the road by one white hand
and lead it to a deep arroyo, a dry wash
in which the river lives when it is home.
Stones remain where the water dropped them
and beneath them aged scorpions sleep
in small hotels with no view at all.
The sand is cool. I wonder if the river
will be here when I need to drown.
2
We choose from what is available and fall
in love: anchorites with spiders, sailors
with each other; the bleeding foot
returns to embrace the shattered glass;
the overdose goes in search of an addict;
and those who are too much afraid
fall in love with their fear.
3
I was broken by love but I was
so well repaired I can pass for anybody,
standing here where a river used to be.
In one hand my prayers, in the other the answers,
with a great gulf fixed between them.
To get here I dragged my shadow
over sharp stones and felt its cuts
and bruises. But the river was dry.
Oh Jesus Christ
and all my fingers losing their rings!
What will become of me when I offer
my soul to the Devil and he doesn’t
want it? What will I do
when there is no one left to betray?
8/26/21
MIDNIGHT - Louise Glück
Speak to me, aching heart: what
ridiculous errand are you inventing for yourself
weeping in the dark garage
with your sack of garbage: it is not your job
to take out the garbage, it is your job
to empty the dishwasher. You are showing off again,
exactly as you did in childhood—where
is your sporting side, your famous
ironic detachment? A little moonlight hits
the broken window, a little summer moonlight, tender
murmurs from the earth with its ready sweetnesses—
is this the way you communicate
with your husband, not answering
when he calls, or is this the way the heart
behaves when it grieves: it wants to be
alone with the garbage? If I were you,
I’d think ahead. After fifteen years,
his voice could be getting tired; some night
if you don’t answer, someone else will answer.