I’m on time
at the airport gate,
where a dream’s void opens
green at the foot of my seat,
an invisible weight
speaks from it,
Where are you, the stories we didn’t write,
the gardens we didn’t grow:
chamomile, rose, basil, thyme.
Where are you, the hair
that never went grey, on
the phone or the bike– our simple earthly travels.
On letters folded three and a half times
inside a standard envelope sent
by the Postal Service:
“The way in which I write poetry is pretty bizarre,”
you mused, undisrupted, typewriter ink from the upstate farm;
Harvest Moon played on vinyl, and you swam
in the muddy pond.
You taught me everything, even how to stop existing,
and the terror of losing a teacher.
Who will show me the way,
or change the channel at red lights?
Who will leave books at my door in the hope of August,
bring me to the gnarly, gritty, grace of age,
and watch these fires dance to nothing?
I’m really trying to love myself this time.
Who will help me remember?
I wrap my wounds with apprehension,
brooding– I don’t want to get better.
I do want to keep going.
Lauren Sarrantonio is a certified speech-language pathologist, yogi, musician and poet. You can find her at @numinouspalms.