In our absent minds we pick
at our brown spots, raised
into the third dimension,
his on his left temple, mine high
on my left cheekbone, under my eye,
like a beauty mark.
It’s one thing to notice
the aches, bumps, diminishments
and another to embrace
each astonishing moment,
the predictable perfume of his
artisan loaves on a foggy Saturday
in February, the usual melody
of the song sparrow, trill
on a March morning in the rain.
Lisa Ashley A 2021 Pushcart Prize nominee, Lisa Ashley lives on an island in the Pacific Northwest. Her writing stems from her work with incarcerated teens, her Armenian ancestors, nature, other poets and her physical challenges. Her work has appeared in Last Leaves, Amsterdam Quarterly, The Healing Muse and other journals.
