Poetry – Page 18 – Bellevue Literary Review

Her lovely face captured the one/
available male in the old folks’ home./
She’s found, at long last, Mr. Right

1. Eat When You Can. Sleep When You Can./
With the pad of my finger I collect crumb/
after crumb like a hopeful, disappearing braille.

Behind the thick, crosshatched glass of the cruiser / my brother, back for the holiday, breathes / more slowly.

They told me that other senses/
would rush in. Now the atmosphere/
is shredded through trees

To survive this exile, you will need/
to hold court with the moon, store the memory/
of its light in a mason jar for later.

For now it’s guesswork: a territory/
full of unmapped regions,

My husband has been into town./
I can smell the out of doors/
in his hair, on his cheek

As late sun fades/
through the haze/
of their sound

If I forget you/ will you disappear?
The arc of Rilke’s question seemed to spawn/
out of a dustbin/ remnant of a
sheer belief that minds are gods.