It rained, as we left that last day.
What did the trees meanto explain,
bent as they wereto the unruly street?
What did the wind speakof ordinary time?
Does anything left behind ever loosefrom us? The string. The balloon.
The wrist. The sky that never stopsmoving.
We left childhoods, tinygalaxies, perched at the kitchentable.
We left with more than we hadwhen we arrived.
What can we ask of time, except to forgive us,again, another moment& another?
Listen to the cicadas, all abuzz.The world, dark.
There is a moment in some futurecountry, where we are uncertain
as snow. Yesterday, the wind calledto the hydrangeas. Each blossom,loud & red.
The house, suicidal as a widowed bride,with-child.
Tell me who we werewhen we first stood
at that door, asking to be let in?
Chelsea Dingman’s first book, Thaw, was chosen by Allison Joseph for the National Poetry Series…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2020