some thoughts on the man she sees when she closes her eyes
gives in to the incomplete shapes
of the people from his past
answers letters and emails,
says i love you, says
i loved you, watches snow blow
past the windshield
this is the world without color
these moments are all
shades of grey
steps closer to god in the
dying light of some january
afternoon, and all he will ever
be is cold
poem waiting 28 years to be written
in a candlelit room in
the first good days of autumn i
will kiss her pale skin will
say i don’t believe in
god but i believe in you and her
smile will make me holy
her joy will
let me be more
[in a house full of doors with no exits]
wants to know about the
last good year says you never stop
talking about it asks were we lovers yet?
and if there is no answer can there
be any truth?
if the wrong door is always
locked from the wrong side, can we
possibly be here by choice?
but it’s true, yes, that it was
the last good year and
it’s true that i was someone else
it’s true that i had the answers but
chose not to share them, and
this is the part my father would laugh at
he would be the reason that i learned to
hate myself at such a young age
it would be the last good year, and
then nothing but the slow
backwards stumble
of everything that came after
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in the continuous search for an unattainable and constantly evolving absolute truth. His latest poetry collections include HEATHEN TONGUE (2018 Kendra Steiner Editions) and A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications).
