Everything moves
from crib to sleigh to coffin.
We pretend that life is still,
prove it with our photos.
We must pretend or risk the fear
of falling off the edge of time.
Time moves, too, before the
moment we are born past
last breath, last blink of our eyes.
We grab the sides to keep our place,
but place is space that hurls us out
to who-knows-where, and how
we land is anybody’s guess.
Make a space
to store dark hours.
Toss a match to
watch them spark
and scorch the
moonlight, burn
a hole through
hints of sunrise.
Grief is a wilted
corsage pinned to my chest.
It doesn’t match my sweater,
but it goes with my smile.
Stay in place
to downsize time, to keep the
strings
of Christmas lights from lengthening
to drape the eaves expanding into
endless rooms that never fit
the
sofa that I bring from home to home.
Twelve Months
I woke up to a year of no regrets,
except to regret a year
is only twelve months.
A year is only twelve months, except
for regrets that bleed. I woke up
to a year that should have lasted
longer.
You have been gone a year. I
shouldn’t
regret waking up to your absence. I
can’t stop
the bleeding from twelve months
without you.
Nolcha Fox - Nolcha’s poems have been published
in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others.
Her three chapbooks are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net.
Editor for Kiss My Poetry and for Open Arts Forum. Accidental
interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news.
Website:
“My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats”
“The Big Unda”
“How to Get Me Up in the Morning”
Twitter:
@NolchaF
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/
nice!
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