we have almost finished
our time here. the drear—
rain and fog and general slate-
gray-ness
of it all—is past
having gotten to me.
most days I hover
along dampened concrete.
my essence—that which is
a whisper, a sketch, dashed
murmur, of you—
drifts between
red firs. most days I try
to know
where you have gone.
I’ve been thinking
about the sun, for one.
permanence,
for another.
I’ve been thinking
if only I could plant
this self
sharpened skewer
pain never a stranger
but still somehow
a shock
hammer struck
against the bell
callous’ curve
that beget
the crack
and cracking
the ring and
ringing
solidly in dirt
and sand-
dusted ground—if only the Earth would sweep
my corroded
supports
beneath her yellowed
and grazed
tastebuds—she could spin
my blood with her’s
take the tar, rich
mulch brown secretion
and join this self—third draft,
unsung, silenced
longing—to her molten,
glowing
slag—then
maybe,
maybe I could go
where you have gone.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 6.
Anna Gayle is a poet, educator, and artist whose work is interested in black womanhood, collective femininity, and chronic illness. Her poems have been published in CALYX, One Art, Rogue Agent, and The Mantle (among other places). She is a graduate of Oregon State University’s MFA program and currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico.
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