You lay in bed.
You were there,
Watching you clock creep
Closer to morning.
You reached out across
The bed, hoping
To grab onto something.
She is gone, of course.
She wasn’t there
To begin with.
It’s time to begin again.
As you watch the
Sun rise in your window,
You rise also.
And you are new again.
He had a wooden fish–
more accurately a wooden puzzle.
He would sit on his bedroom floor and obsessively
put it back together again over and over and over over over
He would sit on the floor
and as he heard his parents fight,
he tore apart that wooden fish.
And when they couldn’t reconcile,
he tried to put in all back together
But that’s the funny thing with puzzles.
Sometimes you can have all the pieces
memorized, forwards and backwards.
Yet when it matters most you
can’t put it together again
for the life of you.
On a cold slab, bare and nude
I awake in a room that doesn’t include
anything warm or soft–
no drop of sun, no splash of a candle.
Then I see her– draped in dripping silk,
her hair the color of devil’s milk.
“How long have I been in this room?”
I ask her, “Are lilacs still in bloom?”
“April has come and gone,” she said,
“Time has no meaning in the land of the dead.”
C.G. Nelson has been an avid reader of poetry since she was thirteen years old. Her first loves were Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe. C.G. Nelson is a new poet. She went to the University of Washington, where she graduated with a degree in English and Philosophy. Find her on Twitter @CGNelsonwrites.