a cultured blonde,
barely twenty years of age.
the kitchen door is open, c’est la vie,
late summer, pears growing black on the ground
outside, sun-stripped fence bare as the walls

the stem of the wine-glass is bone,
is the top-most branches of the old oak,
is fragile as a hope, a memory. a waltz
in the next room,
à la slow halcyon days, the blue eye
of the wild storm.

an early evening in a late summer,
a foreign blonde with his hand on gold,
liquid gold, or the gold of a coin,
or the burnished gold of the achillea
outside. sings,
a chanson, je regrette

if only you could speak,
he serenades to the honey-dipped
pools on the grass outside, the inside
bloom and frost of steam on the dirt-flecked window.
loss becomes an entity itself,
when the lonely grieve

– memoria, Eve A.


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