deathoftheonagatu4

By Ricki Mandeville

My metaphors
would not be lovely now anyway.
If it rained,
I would write only it rains.
Birds on a wire would not be
sleek black knots tied at intervals
across the sky.

Having lost my skill as a poet,
I cannot chronicle my midnights:
the purgatory of your company,
the crazed china figurine of a wife
vague shadows that rise from the corners.

I cannot describe the ghostly stain
of your face in the mirror,
dark rustle of wings from the eaves,
the slight salt of starlight in the street,
nor, a mile away, a sea drowning the moon.

Stripped of my words I cannot explain
why I keep remembering
the length of your shadow,
joined to mine by a slant of sun
as we walked the hills just last October
in a dry yellow rain of leaves.

Previously appeared in Pea River Journal

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s