Snap off small pieces
unless you already have some
thrown together in a drawer
where melancholy sunshine and summer flowers
resist the drama of wind and sky.
A painter said every color
harbors its own soul. But consider
the upward thrust of the dark line—
an act of barbarity,
how it taunts shameless reds
laden with lichen drifting
down the aisle toward someone shouting
in a language you don’t understand,
a little bit watered down. Cobwebs
hanging from the walls of a shed,
a poster about a turkey’s Christmas
tacked to the door, a dog barking,
a baby crying, police sirens, a heartbeat—
whereabouts unknown, blissfully unaware.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 5.
Carmen Germain is the author of These Things I Will Take with Me (Cherry Grove). Recent work has appeared in Poet lore, The Comstock Review, and The Naugatuck Review. She lives in Washington state and northern British Columbia.
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