Reseda

Between the broccoli and the curry

comes the flash and disappearance.

Then the wondering, what’s next?

The screams, like a tsunami’s wail just out of sight.

The pain, better, when it comes,  has bright hard dimensions

like a gutted swimming pool.

All I have to do is climb  this side to that.

It’s not like the waiting, which is forever.

 

There are stains on the carpet and I can’t remember why.

It’s bothering me now and I don’t know about that either.

The stains are black but less black than other

things. Maybe that’s it.

 

You say he packed his suitcase and he won’t be back. 

My brother and I  huddle at the table and cry. Not because

he’ll stay away. He won’t.

Because we are supposed to do something but

we don’t know what.

 

Later I will try to write a poem. Many times and

I won’t because I love you.

But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Published by W. A. Schwartz

I the mother of two complex young women and a beautiful teenage boy, I'm a doctor, a wife, a writer, a good gardener, a terrible cook, a hopeless romantic, a lazy voter, an impatient driver, a conscientious objector, a good daughter, a reasonable sister, a really bad patient, the worst kind of singer, an excellent sewer and the best damn dreamer you ever met.

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