circumnutation

CIRCUMNUTATION

 
 
This is the last
time I can say that last
time I was here
I wore that blue skirt all wrong
partly unzipped and rolled down below
the eight month orb
that buffered me from all embraces.
 
Last time I was here my heart was a balloon,
a waiting room, inflating, making space
for the softest supernova.
His eyes would unfold me.
 
Every day is an anniversary of something
I’d never marked on a calendar:
the first car, an appendectomy, the third kiss,
the pie crust finally unburnt,
the night he walked north, I walked south
arcing away from the dark center
of the silent playground.
Children readied for bed
in the surrounding apartments;
plywood doors slammed through the open windows.
 
Maybe this is the day I’ll mark
with the epiphany that nothing but clocks
move clockwise.
Not the climb of vine, not hips twining
around ghosts in the dark,
not the wheels of the train squealing
into the station
where he waited
a cyclone of acronyms for the most
inconceivable affection
last time I was here.
 
 
 
Stacy Miller sleeps, wakes, breathes, and walks in Charlottesville, Virginia, where she shares a life with a toddling redheaded son who stirs all her creative juices yet ferrets away her pens and her time.  A former editor of the Avatar Literary Magazine of St. Mary’s College of Maryland, Stacy has a B.A. in English, and periodically posts poems to goodphyte.wordpress.com.
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