Peripheral
Maybe my sorrow is for
all the lost and fallen things.
—Loretta Diane Walker
And when the dead will not cease
speaking? Let us stoop,
clear a ring of raw earth
around their graves, tamp in
a woolly herb like creeping
thyme. Half-buried,
gilt saucers ransomed
from backyard sales
form a porcelain hem. Call this
a truce. Or a conversation.
The soul’s delicate frame, for loss.
No grave? Cut the buckle
away from the frayed red leash.
Gather sea glass
and foreign coins from the bureau.
Orphaned buttons. Sometimes
goodbyes move outward,
concentrically: Adhere
your emblems alongside
all that is shattered or
disassembled. Now
a mosaic font awaits the next rain.
—Laurie Klein
This poem is offered in honor of Memorial Day.
You can hear Laurie Klein read poetry in this free audio sample. She’s wonderful!
Used by permission of Laurie Klein, author of Where the Sky Opens: A Partial Cosmography, Cascade Books, © 2016. Featured photo by Julia Kadel, Creative Commons, via Unsplash.
So beautiful, Laurie.
I love many lines. Here's just one:
"The soul’s delicate frame, for loss."