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.