Poetry
leaving the pond
leaving was harder than being there;
what we have not resolved is the coming home:
where you might linger
where you might give us a sign that
you didn't mean to fade away
that you miss us, that it was all right for us to
go to Old Forge without you
that the pine trees were silently missing you too
that the mist still paused, still hung low
on the sand where you sat looking at the lake
where you wished you were, where a single boat
rowing toward you reminded you
of a skirting water spider you watched as a kid
when dusk was all the gray you'd ever known
where your passing was a mirror where we could see
ourselves dissolving, where the only reason you lived
as long as you did, was to see yourself
one more time on the face of the pond
How to Destroy a Colour
You feel it in the voice of your dying mother
who tells you spring will never be
again. She stops eating. She kills herself
always in summer, when doing so bothers you
the most, when doing so makes you question
why green was ever invented.
How to destroy a colour. This dying
is constant. This voice descends everywhere
in whispers. It withers the ferns. You
are almost glad nothing green survives.
