Just The Daily Turn
A beach rose, plum red skin stretched
against a fog Maine sky, pushed
through spring, summer, fall all in
today. Her hip, now nearly rotten, hatches
below a withering to fertilize the marsh’s sulfur
shore. How is it that now you’ve gone too
along with every winter I’ve ever crossed?
Death has sent the seasons spiraling, speeding
the cycle. My Maine, my past slow state of pitch
pine and smoke, winds faster, an offbeat ticker
tape parade in a silent film stored too long. Colors —
the tipped grey on gulls, the thorned red rise
on the barberry bush — all bleed through my day
more brightly and sounds, waves sucking shore,
the dry brush of heel on hardwood, are clear.
All of the world, it seems, sharp against the loss of you.
After your death, after the mourning, after thoughts
of calling to ask about the oil change, questions
mid-sleep to an imagined weight nearby, after
the world continued to continue with every
sunrise, I saw dew without looking. Today
I watched a hummingbird moth’s proboscis
attain beak in a decent beyond the hostas. Confusion
of iridescent wings fluttered so fast I found feathers.
And I cannot fit the puzzle of it, this earth,
this day, all of this, more dazzling without you in it.
Judge’s Comments —
There are moments in this poem that sweep the rug out from under me:
After your death, after the mourning, after thoughts
of calling to ask about the oil change, questions
mid-sleep to an imagined weight nearby, after
the world continued to continue with every
sunrise, I saw dew without looking.
A beautiful elegy that shows loss can sharpen the world as keenly as love.
— Laura Donnelly