I remember laughing with you

for the last time

at the art fair,

and when it was time to leave

I walked away

with the reluctance of honey

dripping from the comb.


At least you lived

in the same little house

perfect and white—

hidden from my heart

behind the mesh of trees

where sometimes, driving by,

I could see you drift from car to door

or glimpse the smoke

float upward from your grill

and know you lived happily

up on that ridge without me,

impervious to my daily wish—

which would have altered

so much sweetness

had it come true.


And now that you’re buried

I find I can’t remove

that yellow T-shirt from the hanger

to wear

or offer to the rummage sale

because it represents

the sliver of possibility

that always seemed to contain

and separate us,

especially in that public place

where you hugged me so tightly

within the thick arms of the crowd

where my wish—

so wing-like and fragile—

soared before it fell

and entered earth,

finally broken.




DeMaris Gaunt


Leave a Reply

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

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

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )


Connecting to %s