Imagine

It comes so soon, the moment

when there is nothing left to wait for

Marcel Proust

Take a moment, imagine you were

never loved

no self-sympathy more a

mental exercise, play along

there was abuse, death

and family didn’t work out

Picture yourself

with a grieving, pug face

to put it poetically

not rich, and brimming

with social ineptitude

Hope is not beautiful

more a bare-knuckled

broken-toothed, street fighter

who continues to get up when

the intelligent would stay prone

Until long hours and heavy work

break you physically

now a face that was never a kindness

resembles a staked vampire

Decades you’ve stood outside

the candy store surrounded

by children pushing past

parents eyeing sympathetically

If you tear a hole in a knot

there will be fewer loops

more space for grace

acceptance

Poets have long known death

is but a repurposing of atoms

and writing as bleeds onto the page

but I am searching for words

to remove the stains

---

Michelle Hartman is the author of four poetry books, four chapbooks, the most recent a winner of the John and Miriam Morris Memorial Chapbook Contest. Her work has appeared in Crannog, Galway Review, The Atlanta Review, Penumbra, Poem, Southwestern American Review, Carve and many more.  She is the former editor of Red River Review, as well as the owner ofHungry Buzzard Press.