zafusy

I laugh the way you’re caught there it looks bad
(but will new longing or old damage synchronize

spring rains?) in some impoverished Pollock, restored
by nature on a bench mid-blizzard, sipping scotch.

Turning it over, I still feel your ghost body forking
into me from some old grave. Turning it back,

we’re stones wedged furiously in a dry creek sky.
Wasn’t that the year they recalibrated beauty

in favor of rejection? But your tears weren’t even
born yet, wearing away this flowery space between

irreparable and closure. Always to be a flood
when you grew up, and have me for your dam alone.

Peter Rennick

View all poems by Peter Rennick