Poem of the Week
Each week we feature a poem by one of our authors. Take a few moments to enjoy it. And then, if you'd like to pass it along to a friend who could use a pause-poésie in their day, click on the "share this poem" link below.
Ghost Stories
I.
the morning my husband called me to the window
and said look, I looked, and we saw a man
walking backwards, barefoot in the snow
these are the signs of loss: the red mitten perched
on the hood of a parking meter, ice
clinging to the wool like beads of sweat
the mitten thumbtacked to the bulletin board
the white diamonds of a chain-link fence
in a blizzard, every wire hung with frost
and on top of the fence-post, a mitten
those times when you stand on your front porch,
keys in your hand
am I leaving something behind?
or halfway down the stairs,
the reason for descending
suddenly escapes you
the way the meaning of a word disintegrates
with repetition
the way the snow obliterates beauty
with beauty, un trou de mémoire
white flakes swirling
in the black hole
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