THE THROES OF TIME BY HILARY LEATHEM
The statue to the right,
Disintegrating,
Melting,
Under the unforgiving harshness
Of the elements,
Manages to continue
Pointing east.
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The statue to the right,
Disintegrating,
Melting,
Under the unforgiving harshness
Of the elements,
Manages to continue
Pointing east.
I was out to escape brooding about
great weights of the world dividing
my flesh from its better half. Luckily,
my wild love was sitting right there beside me
Sharp small lights, wistful
in their solitudes, kiss
at the edges of uncombed
woodlots far back from
this unlit road
When it’s cold I miss everything warm
rømmegrøt sprinkled with cinnamon
berry juice steaming in a mug
you
Hopscotch to school, pick up best friend
she giggles, tries to keep up: hop-jump hop-jump
But here, with cameras flashing, guides cutting the silence in foreign tongues, bodies shifting for better views, she felt herself to be an intruder of the worst kind, one who has passed beyond the limits of decency. Instinctively she turned away. Mike was right behind her, adjusting his camera settings.
Read MoreWhen the wind shifts and tears up the canyon,
I think of the Bora—that sweeps
down the Balkans. Do the gusts
make nocturnal animals nervous?
when you
step on a cactus or
touch a live wire.
It won’t kill you
the first time but …
Little skeletons
Made of glass
Of aluminum
Of metal
Litter the bank of the river.
And this blue heron sure of purpose lifts her stately head into a sky of amaranth,
spreads her wings like brushstrokes of great drama, and shimmers out of sight.
In an ancient
Japanese
legend,
a red thread is tied
to the pinkie finger
of a newborn,
“Nothing else matters,” he began,
and looked around the room.
Clearing his throat