Her scent no longer on your face attests

the word apartment is no accident —

it’s parceling, like beans from squash

or like the homebound from the lost.


As gardens, so with rooms: and yet upon

this whisking of tea powder in a bowl

until the conjured swirl displays

the roily froth of all our days,


consider, when our children see the crush

of fragrant yarrow on our backs and shins,

how in telling plain and glad

we might profess the myriad


reckonings of love, that from a fall

when everything, impossibly, is spring,

this place, since from bereavement taken,

may canopy the paths of the forsaken.


Greg Sendi

Greg Sendi a Chicago writer and former fiction editor at Chicago Review. In the past year, his poetry and fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in a number of literary magazines and online outlets, including  ApricityThe Briar Cliff ReviewClarionCONSEQUENCEThe Masters ReviewPlumePulp LiteratureSan Antonio Review and upstreet among others.

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