Lis Anna-Langston, The Fables: Ethereal
In Later Years, I Recall the Contours of Your Hands
Sarah Daly
Ice transforms the world to glass.
But inside, stillness, silence reigns.
Dust accumulates on your desk;
hair clings to the underside, green mold
blossoms between the folds. So I clean
the place where you once wrote false sonnets.
Carefully, methodically, I apply the blue-tinted soap
and lemon-laced wax to obliterate decay’s odor.
But the polished wood offers no reflection, no
consolation. It is still, silent. Like when your hands
ringed my throat, and the pressure suffocated
those worries, those fixations, as my body wilted.
Nobody spoke, not even the birds; the world stopped,
as if to acknowledge this aberration.
Later, you smoothed the lies,
flattened the pain, with a poet’s gift.
So I cleaned up well, washed and ironed your shirts,
salted your eggs, trimmed your beef, kept the television
on mute. But, our movements were grim, artificial.
Eventually, it was the crimson stains on my skirt,
the desperation running down my thighs,
that sent you away.
Now, I am glad for winter’s isolation, the easy
excuse to retreat, to siphon my own veins, for desire.
Sarah Daly
Ice transforms the world to glass.
But inside, stillness, silence reigns.
Dust accumulates on your desk;
hair clings to the underside, green mold
blossoms between the folds. So I clean
the place where you once wrote false sonnets.
Carefully, methodically, I apply the blue-tinted soap
and lemon-laced wax to obliterate decay’s odor.
But the polished wood offers no reflection, no
consolation. It is still, silent. Like when your hands
ringed my throat, and the pressure suffocated
those worries, those fixations, as my body wilted.
Nobody spoke, not even the birds; the world stopped,
as if to acknowledge this aberration.
Later, you smoothed the lies,
flattened the pain, with a poet’s gift.
So I cleaned up well, washed and ironed your shirts,
salted your eggs, trimmed your beef, kept the television
on mute. But, our movements were grim, artificial.
Eventually, it was the crimson stains on my skirt,
the desperation running down my thighs,
that sent you away.
Now, I am glad for winter’s isolation, the easy
excuse to retreat, to siphon my own veins, for desire.