It’s been a long time since I’ve written in blood on brick walls
just because they were there.
Cold soup is enough to set me
off, or my neighbor’s new tattoo dripping color so bright it hurts my ears.
The colors are important. I will map them out for you, with
footnotes and charts, pay attention,
this is my journey. Like a bonfire on a brisk October morning it begs the question: What is he
burning so early in the day?
I rode the Ferris wheel with my dead father and laughed
for the first time in years. The holes in my apartment wall,
permanent and jagged, no longer ransacked my brain.
I stared at his scarf of many colors, and like Joseph I wondered
what dreams I must interpret, what droughts
lay ahead without ample boxes of sugared cereal, what sacrifice must be made for this moment
of simple circular joy?
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Beth Gordon is a poet who currently lives in St. Louis, Missouri and spends most weekends in the company of fellow writers, musicians, wine drinkers, and two dogs named Izzie and Max. She is the proud mother of three creative human beings, Matt, Alex and Elise, who fill her world with art and music.
Photo credit: Christina Salomon