30 days of poetry: day twenty-three

The door is always luminous, isn’t it? For me it is, anyhow. Staying takes strength, and I don’t know if I have much anymore. A broken heart needs careful handling, not more of what broke it. Stay tuned. 


By Rachel Sherwood

I poured a whiskey and soda
watching the tree outside dissolve:
light going backward   pushed to corners
to the white sliver of wood
around the door.

Where was that river seething with light?
I recall the banks menaced by wasps
swollen on summer sap, a cement hollow
stuck with their strange cradles
a woozy stench of damp clay
the blunt poison of water snakes.

I do remember someone
close warm flesh pushed to the sand
the ocean a dark noise
echoing gulls and a wail of forlorn love
moonlight like yellowed keys
on his antique piano
music across the water    our song
tides pulled awful and endless
as the spine of memory.

The light is lost
my glass is hollow:
the door is luminous
like a firefly at midnight.