So overgrown, the yellow poppies
keel over. After so much beauty,
after the heat spells of August,
a full house and then an empty house,
sweeping up to a little music
(a favorite cup dropped from a shelf),
too many attachments here:
who drank from which glass,
who couldn’t bear a phrase,
who became so shrill I’d shrink back
from what’s imprinted there. How to take
those ragged bursts of color now,
or the kerchief left behind, a scent
that lingers longer than the person.
How can I keep my own head up
when having been inside someone
is like breathing deeply, but also
having blood drawn?
This poem is from Ira Sadoff’s seventh collection of poetry, True Faith, published by BOA Editions in 2012.
*Photo courtesy of PrincessGirlyGirl.