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