Daily Archives: September 22, 2021


he said.

Don’t take hold of
this suffering,
this blanket of sorrow,
and pull it up over 
your shoulders
like a cape before you go out
to face the blue-gray world.

It’s heavy, has lead in its hem,
and if you fall off into
the deep water below us
I won’t be able
to pull you up and out.

No matter how I might try,
he said,

the cape
is too heavy;

you have always been a superhero
to me, we both know I am not
and have never been;

the water down there
is deep and cold and if you sink
away from me, I shall follow you
down to the bottom and together 
we’ll drown when there’s
no need for that, we’re not

won’t solve a thing here.
We just have to take care,
watch where we step.

We’ll be alright,

he said. 


Your living room couch
a blank hole.

Your affectless grin 
in the face of televised chatter.

Your bedeviled yard, filthy from
socialization you didn’t attend.

Half the community mourning
the departure of the sun,

half ecstatic in full plastic ghost worship
under the moon.

Your slow blinking apprehension
when you turn away from

this season of cooling and
finale; if ever there will be

rebirth, it seems mythically far off now,
a prophecy like any other:

affirmed only in retrospect,
long after you miss your chance

to prepare for it
and reap its joy when it comes.

You tell yourself there’s so much to do
before the snow, all those things

to be picked up and stowed 
before the first snow, before

the first snow. But
the living room couch is

a blank hole and there’s so much
chatter it’s hard to even think.

Instead you sit with the prophecies,
eyes shut tight, affectless grin in place.