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third floor walk-up
 

 
When you were the same age
as I was last year, you already had
a husband, a son and a third floor
walk-up apartment


that bricked you in and rubbed
you raw with rough straw walls
floorboards made of wet cement
with bloody footprints the size of his hands
and always, always - the wind at your door



in the brick sided tenement
six blocks from the park where
you went every day with the babe
in a carriage to sit by
the pond and dream of the sea


at the end of your submerged bridge
of what remains - the sand ripple scars
breakers of bone, sea lavender bruises
and veins wishing for tides that
would never change



that surrounded the island
with the rose garden cottage
the green window boxes full
of geraniums and white picket fence
with the gate on the latch to
keep out survivors


so many rooms in the black lake
of the sea, first island home
slate and stone as blue
as the wild hyacinth in april meadows
of october firegrass



from the shipwreck of your childhood
a circle of penlight
crouched in dark corners, father a filigree
of ghost shadows running across a cold moon


and the gold band of sea gypsies
with the ebony eyes that follow you everywhere
wishing for rain and always, always ,
through a glass darkly,
the wind at your door.



By firebird918

© 2015 firebird918 (All rights reserved)

 

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This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Fun with a phrase (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Fun with a phrase (challenge has been closed)


This Poem is part of a Challenge: - Fun with a phrase (challenge has been closed)


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