by Michael Ferris

I hadn’t viewed the body
or touched the waxy skin
or heard that last ungodly
rattle of the wind —
until a few weeks after,
the light of morning spread
from darkness to disaster:
your pillow by my head
and nothing, a depression,
where once your warmness lay.
Then dawned the recognition,
the fact’s eclipse of day.
I had myself to hold —
oh how my flesh went cold.

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Michael Ferris divides his time between Manhattan (where he renders unto Caesar…) and Kingston, NY, where he confabulates with the chipmunks and hummingbirds and a stable of poets and philosophers (some of whom still draw breath). He has been accepted for publication in Light Quarterly, The Lyric, and The Shit Creek Review.
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Pat Jones
Published October 3 2010