We raged brilliant that October afternoon.
Colored cords and silver round our wrists,
aromas of sweet corn, cumin. The salted air.
A row of blackbirds balanced tentatively
on high tension wires. The boardwalk,
nearly empty. Subdued tides reclaimed shells
and beaten strands of seaweed as if determined
to obscure what lay broken.
We rarely understood what the other was thinking,
although we recognized what was easy, the tempos of the waters,
the old family stories, how closely our faces
resembled one another.
Who at the table could predict
your death come spring?
You, a flicker, like a bright speck
from a disappearing sun. A faded
hue atop wrinkled waters.
When that day drifts back, I wonder,
would you remember
how the sky opened?
The way the ocean’s pulse
slowed? How the rain
J. A. Lagana is a writer, poet, and editor from Pennsylvania. Her poetry has previously appeared in Atlanta Review, Naugatuck River Review, the Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere.
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