In My New England Home

By John Grey

Damn. I’d have to really hate myself

to believe she’s never coming back to me.

Look in the mirror and throw up.

Smash in my skull with a hammer.

But I’m merely waiting here,

as stoic as Zeno of Citium.

 

So she left without a word.

And I find nothing to console myself

in the sun-burnt reds, the crepe-like yellows,

of Autumn. In fact, I long to shake

every tree in the yard, the neighborhood,

the forest, so their leaves come down

ahead of time. Stark trunks and

gutted branches – that’s my motto.

But she’ll return. It’s too lovely out

not to.

*

John Grey is an Australian author, published in Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty, currently residing in the US.

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