An empty chair
Nothing more than a human
Broken in tiny fragments of light
For which nothing is
Before the take off.
We stopped the car.
You smoked a cigarette and watched for a bit
the fast clouds bringing another rain to our promised land.
I went out and did not look back
to catch a dragonfly suspended by a thin thread
over the undisturbed waters.
I could not swim but
I quietly jumped in, following
the only spot of true colour
since my unfortunate birth.
I did not leave a trace as I walked the meadow.
The only memory sitting now on the empty chair,
the poem I’m writing to you
from the grave.
Photograph: John Stadnicki
We have become so good at
talking about the weather
when we don’t speak at all.
Not a moment of silence can pass
without me reminding you
how you left the white empty chairs outside.
Look, it rained on them
for weeks and weeks,
we have nowhere to sit and rest now.
We walk on the frozen cement with bare feet
the rust peels off in the sun,
our skin peels off
to reveal the true colour of our bones.