William Reichard brings us an evocative poem of loss and, perhaps, hope.
On Sunday We Slide Into the Mud of Our Dreams
All of the gray skies in the world won’t
equal the gray skies of this day.
Unmake the guest bed, then make it again.
Put away the clothes that have been sitting
in piles for weeks. She tells me our mother
won’t hear what the doctors say and
she sounds cancerous with anger.
How is love sewn into the leaves of hatred,
bound up between the same covers?
Death, if not by choice, is not abandonment,
but we’ll cry at the injustice nonetheless.
Clear away the dishes, run the vacuum
over the rug and pray for accidents that
bring good fortune instead of bad.
Read more of William Reichard’s poetry.
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