Today's poem is by Frannie Lindsay
It. Is. Going. To. Happen.
Gradually things began to appear in the house
that belonged to the risen-away: dahlia brooch
on the lapel of the blouse she never wore,
pebbly bath soap damp with the scent
of a woodfitter's palms. Scraps of the red
that had never been torn into cardinals.
From her fire escape she could still
see the non-wing of heat lightning
grazing its chosen. Gone
were their rumpled picnic blankets, nary
a crumb in the brambles. Gone
their guitars and their little plump hymnals.
From the outskirts came reports
that even the slowest dancing had stopped.
Still, she took up her hair brush
and worked an errant tangle loose.
She leaned back on her pillow. Imagined
the downpour of valuables,
all that scared starlight. Noticed
the tepid moon failing to warm itself
in the old, stern hearth of the birch ribs.
Noticed the nightstand needed
a decent dusting. Noticed
how grateful she was for that, for dust.
22 May, 2011
Copyright © 2014 Frannie Lindsay All rights reserved
from Our Vanishing
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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