Persistent Ink (I)

I did not know
How much you wrapped yourself around my heart
Until today when sitting in the park
I accidentally caught you eating bread.

You took each bite with your eyes closed
And gently stroked the crust
Like you would do on Sunday in church.

You did not smile but
I think it was the sun who smiled at you
For a brief moment.

I had been there in the cold for quite a while
But did not move or blink or even breathe
Just waited.

You packed the crumbs away and
Quickly vanished.
And then I sobbed.

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Post Scriptum

Sometimes I think I’m made of words
And not of flesh
A poet eating ice cream
On a tree leaf
But other times
My very flesh will make the words
Which float like water grains
On wooden tables.

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Wind Octet

There are no doors
No windows
Where we are
The black air stops me
Seeing how you look like
As you sit on the chair
Sipping the cold tea
I can only imagine your face
Reflected over an old map of innocence
There is nothing to say now
All that had to be spoken
Is spoken for
The non-words fill the landscape
With stillness
The beautiful dead bodies
Are floating outside the city limits
Taken away by tides.

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Sleep

I sigh when I sleep
And turn my back to the sea.
My body gets smaller and smaller
Ready to enter the wooden box.
The history grows between us
Like a living room plant
In a small, windowless house
But at least you live by the fire
While I am the black ink of this poem
Staring at you during the night.
My bright eyes reflect
The shadow of your absence,
Waiting for a new, final peace.

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Photo: Georgiana Calinescu-Barber

Picture

I saw her in the mirror today
And she saw me.
We watched each other for a while.
The black reached forward.
The blue moved backwards.
I pushed my hands against the glass
She did the same.
I leaned towards left
She towards right.
I stopped. She stopped too.
Then laughed.
I had no teeth.
She had some.
I had rain water in my hair
She had no hair at all.
None at all, had she, NO…THING.
There’s been no rain in her world for a while now.
Just a persistent thirst.
She carefully opened her palm to
Catch the falling drops and look at them
But I rushed out
Gently pushing the image away.
My wet hands, her cracked lips.
The soft memory of growing old
Alone.

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Print: Lorraine Robbins