No Promises to Keep

Opening the lid of the box that I’ve forgotten, I
hold my breath like an actress about to discover
a trust that has been kept miles from the truth.

And, my God—I lift the letter gingerly & read how
I was loved & denied in a string of words that no
one explained why it left me utterly homesick.

The lightbulb dims. Yet, I hang on to this
handkerchief with its embroidered flowers
and cube of incense wrapped in green foil;

and a diploma from Vichy that claims I
know how to dream en français. This is
the cobble street swollen with rain—

magnolia trees in bloom. Pink is
pink here—this dried corsage
is something else.

M. J. Iuppa lives on a small farm near Lake Ontario’s shores. Check out her blog for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.