that's mrs. mediocrity to you

.

.

you kept saying

my name and i kept breaking ancient dishes and the road rose up to meet silence after all those years of pontificated blessings. it wasn’t an ending and we were never careful and we met again just left of someone’s center. a poplar whispered overhead, louder than reconciliation. you touched my arm as a question.

beneath the tall pine
six feet from feast and fallow
the sound of breaking

.

. . . . .

.