Connie Post
Photograph by Myles Boisen |
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SUMMER GONE
By Connie Post She swears she will never remove this dress at least not from over the shoulder and never before midnight only when Fall has turned away only when the window does not notice her leaving like solstice will she find the fabric from which it was made she will kneel at the wooden chest at the foot of her bed call up the gods of fabric and languid August skies she loves pulling out the patterns again feeling the thin paper, as if it were a sky yet to be made she will again remember the store clerk cutting the cloth so carefully as if it were a shadow the effortless folding its scent, nestled inside the creased paper bag she will kneel for the longest time again, understand the simple kindness of a shoulder strap the way faded cotton can remember a falling moon she will carefully hide the hem lines of summer quietly tucking in each edge like a prayer FOLDING By Connie Post We once folded the same beige blanket each night before bed you taking one end me the other you taught me how to tuck in the corners assure it was oblong and perfect like your straightened apron finally after two steps to the center we would meet I watched carefully how you would complete the act —such relief and retribution in finding order in the stepping away I always wondered if you knew how empty my hands felt after they dropped to my side in leaving the room I understood how quiet was folded and put away today I find myself turning in the edges of frayed hours I spend each night waiting for an ordinary dusk to meet me somewhere in the middle MOMENT OF IMPACT By Connie Post That night in December, sheets of rain fell down like hard earned wisdom the two lane freeway you chose fell prey the mud was exhumed from beneath the asphalt stirring the storm of the season in the report they said you died instantly at the moment of impact there was no suffering a small comfort when I fall inside nights of shallow slumber and torrential rage I look for reasons in the secret sorcery of the seasons but find none I think back to the days you used to drive me home over that short gravel road with no sign, and I think of my body, turning into itself each time the car would stop suddenly like our conversation how could I have known then that the sudden stops would creep into my memories like dust in the tires how could I have known I would remember most your hand on the gear shift, before I left how could I have known that every day your moment of impact would become mine  Connie Post |
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