First, you thought of her
blue shawl, the one
she wore wrapped round
her shoulders
in sea breezes
of summer light
(that was before the grass
grew tall, before
the stucco
fell from the house walls).
Next, you called out
the names you gave them:
Jorie, Karl, Jay.
You knew long ago they ceased
to hear, but you wanted them
to understand, wherever they were.
(Hope is often little
more than hell.)
Later, you watched
leaves (from your windowsill)
sway in the wind like white
handkerchiefs waving goodbye.
At last, you locked the door,
turned up the heat,
inhaled what was not air.
Two days (too late) the smell found
you out.
The house was ever after
what you said it was
when they went away and left
you there.
The grass in the yard
grew tall.
C. Dylan Bassett is a poet from Las Vegas, NV whose work has appeared in various journals and magazines including The Portland Review, The Monarch Review, The Valley, Inscape and others.
