Tag Archives: Moving On


Thing is—
over isn’t over.
is when
you begin to realize
there will be
to come after you
to learn him
love him
teach him new tricks
in the kitchen
in the garden
in bed—
and you will be brick-hit
by his happiness—
the happiness
you swore
you’d do anything
to cause
or create—
even if it meant




Storage Shed

The cardboard boxes
have collapsed under the weight
of this past year—
they have suffered the daily cycle
of dew and dawn and temperatures
that had no trouble penetrating
the sheet metal walls
of this storage shed.
I am here to empty the contents
of this small rectangular room
that you filled so neatly with your hate.
The first time I unlocked
the flimsy door and rolled it up,
my books (not even boxed)
tumbled to my feet like the lives
you believe I destroyed.
It took hours to chisel a path
into my belongings,
so haphazardly strewn,
that I could feel the pleasure you took
in purging me from your life—
from the house we shared
for a dozen years.
Who could blame you
for not letting me back in
after I told you what crimes
I couldn’t help but commit?
And as I carried away
the things I found I could live without
I began to imagine you
filling the boxes with resentment
and taping them shut
with sticky bitterness.
I imagined the involuntary smile
that would appear on your face
if you knew my favorite mug was broken.
My stained glass window, cracked.
The lemongrass basket, crushed.
I thought about texting you this news
because I knew it would give you
a small deserved delight—
but you’d misunderstand
and think I was trying to tell you
it was somehow your fault.






“Alvaro and Christina” by Andrew Wyeth, 1968



Tiny and warm,
your cabin hugged us all:
your folks,
your brothers,
sister and all the kids,
and outside
we were surrounded
by velvet green meadows
which gave way
to a wall of trees glistening
with their last yellow hope
just as the light
invited the four of us
to walk into the landscape—
and my husband and I
thought you and your wife
were as happy
as we were that day,
and maybe you were
in that lovely afternoon
with our bellies full
and pumpkin pie
waiting to be sliced.
Only now is it clear
that deconstruction
doesn’t always take its time—
beauty can peak
like the autumn leaves
and then disappear
into a wasteland
of colorless cold.
Everything you owned
was divided, sold,
the tiny warm cabin
no longer part of our holidays—
and those of us
whose marriages
hadn’t failed as completely
as yours
gave thanks the following year
when we learned
that you had stumbled
upon it again – Love –
and we took another walk
into a different landscape,
the four of us,
changed, ordinary,
still so much beauty
clinging like leaves
before the fall.


DeMaris Gaunt

Moving On

Moving On

Half my life

is the number of years

you’ve drifted in and out

of my memory—

those first few

the ones that solidified

and became a chamber for the rest,

the ones that wouldn’t contain you

or frame you in the doorway

which is how I remember

every moment.

The distance was so short

between my seat

and where you stood,

and the necessary task that linked our days

so quickly accomplished that

there was barely enough time

to speak in complete sentences

and so your smile must be

the key to why I’ve loved you

this long, for no reason at all

except that each time I pulled away

or moved on, there you were

right there with me.



DeMaris Gaunt