By Andrew Lafleche
I Miss Hummingbirds in Winter
I am in bed this evening when a sudden downpour violent enough to jar me from that place— between the hours waiting for tomorrow and the darkness which will deliver me there; the space where shapes escape their borders and the voices behind my brow escape my lips whispered delicate as the hand rested on my shoulder, thigh by a woman who is not here anymore—does. confused I listen for some time to the staccato drumming of sky water colliding with the tin roof awestruck, before she leaves and momentarily I disbelieve she was ever truly here with me alone in bed tonight.
The First Bottle of Cabernet After a Drought
the dog's ears erect ahead the roll thunder uncork another bottle or wait (don't I mean) cigarette stick butted with cigar there are no stars tonight. he's never felt the rain doesn't know how a drop floods in a moment but he will (too late) Diana candle lighting the path housebound from kitchen one foot next secure two bottles (instead) as I foresaw the intimacy my demons share with I, married death do us. forget to let it breathe, take a breath myself, blood (one of ours) consumed in, offering? there the pup is a world still wondered he'll make a nice pelt wolf dog wolf mountain pup unmarred, groomed hold still this won't hurt one bit.
A Woman Loved
Who’ll be my role model
Now that my role model is gone, gone?
“The flowers are exploding in my house right now— They’re out of control,” she said. “The amaryllis dining on the table near the nook— The nook too cold to sit in, but that’s besides the point. Three weeks ago, it was a dried stump, This beautiful red masterpiece, if I do say so myself. The orchids, too. Did you see the orchids? Did you see all three chutes? Pure white. I did that.” Starting the stopping here, and not the other way around, A woman loved is always near, even when she’s only gone. Little sister, daughter, mother, wife, threading life: Seaming connections in your offering, Stitching, wherever you could, All these lives you strung together, if only you—if only. Speaking appreciating beauty, Paula, Why’d you have to leave? Who’ll be here in the fall this year Aglow beneath the fire in the trees? Beautifully reckless, refreshingly forthright, So gently real, so gloriously bright; Little blueberry and you forever now bound together tight.
resolve required a man to permit his(her) heart to break knowing one word would quit the pain holding fast kills most in the moment to arrive 13 years too late
he said, try and lose something not already yours fall to your knees and writhe over ghosts yours trying to hold water through leaky fingers sand in an hourglass wasting, yours yours, yours, yours the melancholic salve the salve of melancholia the tears release the pounds and the hangover doesn’t curse the sun’s rise because everything is different because everything is the same only lighter and the year ahead not yet yours so hope.
not all the way down on account the time it s been blame the twenty- eight degree sun or her gone day after the storm-shower baptism doesn t matter i m shaved forget how long i ve seen my face
Grace Upon Grace
To hear what you’ve said I’d have to listen; blind man feeling his way toward you, am I. Easy as “come and see,” claim knowing me seeing me, under the tree naming me, anew. I have lived a part so long now, I doubt your truth. Yet here I am, again after time again—
Andrew Lafleche is the award-winning poet and author of No
Diplomacy, Ride, and Spring Summer, Winter, Fall. His work uses spoken
style language to blend social criticism, philosophical reflection,
explicit prose, and black comedy. Following his service as an infantry
soldier in the Canadian Armed Forces, Lafleche received an M.A. in
Creative and Critical Writing from the University of Gloucestershire. He
lives on a farmstead in the Bonnechere Valley. Please visit
www.AndrewLafleche.com or follow @AndrewLafleche on Twitter for more