by Barbara Daniels
I witness the last snow as it
turns to rain. Memory slicks
the roadway, the long-washed
stains of a dead man. I’m almost
lost at the risky crossing. Nothing
marks it. Boughs of forsythia
leap to light even in rain, even
in darkness. Malice shines in
splattered ditchwater, also my
anger, this late, this long after.
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
There is no solace in the rain, no hope in the forsythia’s glow. As implacable as the reflection of malice and anger in the ditchwater, the memory of death on the road.
This dense rendering of a trauma’s aftermath contains and prolongs it in precise and full images. Stunning.