Happy to say this poem was published today on Autumn Sky Poetry.
Many thanks to the editor, Christine Klocek-Lim.
I walk this dying year slowly down to the edge. You laugh, tell
me I am holding his shrivelled arm too tight, he totters now, his
voice feeble, not that he has anything left to say. I wait for him
to crumble to ashes so I can hand him back to ocean that birthed
him, how many times have we done this here, how many times
have we stood at this door, me empty hearted, this silent Bay
of Bengal, waiting in seeming nonchalance, wave after wave,
counting down the seconds. Remember the time he was broken
before the winter solstice, I brought him in pieces, in black plastic
bags, parts missing, and once, long ago, when I did not want to
let him go- all that crusted angst has turned blue wine to salt, yet
this sea burns the fire of a new day in her belly, our ancient…
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