Always the champion of
grand gestures, galloping back and forth
across a painfully bright horizon,
just out of reach.
My knight in shining hyperbole.

I ached with the same expansive proportions,
made a habit of aching,
tried to obscure it with other pursuits
(page-turn, flight-path, knit-purl, orange-peel,
snow-fall, love-fall)

Tactless grief,
this time around at least-
frame it up in some new sensory textures:

I am older now
(she says, tiptoe with all her twenty-some years)

I can still inch through nailbitten nights, just
get spread so thin onto the expanse of
asphalt ice-scrape radio

push through the morning
garnish level tones with reprimands
until almost unexpectedly the

papers have been shuffled into stacks by small hands, the
room is in lopsided order at best, and
the tears finally have a space here in
eraser-dust crayon-smell

blue mitten abandoned
under a desk.

Speechless at the shape of small voices and new ideas
dawning with minuscule explosions, here before me every day,
yet all the more speech-full
of things I should have
emptied out.


One Response to Protagonistic

  1. annadefenestrated says:

    I remember reading poems of yours years ago
    and it’s like you’re becoming a
    truer version of yourself and
    i love you

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