Leveler Poetry Journal
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Orphan anvils

 

The lightning hit so close I could not see

for sure the devastation. I waited, needing

the storm to go away. I feared debris

had trashed the yard again. Instead, receding

thunder marked the end. No guarantee

of safety. This is how we part, misreading

love for refuge. Really all we had

was pleasure, little moments here and there.

Tomorrow you will go and I’ll be glad,

or sad, perhaps. We won’t look back or swear

to write. For now, the sky’s blue is clad

in dissipating anvils, disappear-

ing storms. Outside you pick up broken sticks.

Inside I mourn the troth I could not fix.




Christine Klocek-Lim