This Is Goodbye

By Ashleigh Hatter


Lonely hill, but only lonely when I leave, and I’m still here, so it’s not lonely with me

here

and I’m glad it doesn’t mind/old man, bowed and balding head, trees are hair and turning red, grass is fed, often tread and crushed ‘neath heels, pools of water running down, imagine how that feels – tickling? – and then surreal the <body> of this man lifting his back, Atlas tall, to push a gnat to heaven/because I like to be

here

or, at least for the moment now.

Sun setting, skin thick sweating, eyes batting and watching pollen twirl, revolutions and orbits – mini-worlds – defying words, my mind so amazed struck dumb and babbling, like birds all chattering, tellin’ each other, tellin’ each one, “Hey, good mornin’ y’all”, and “Hey, there’s the Sun.” And that pollen suspended, catching the light, resembling stars before the Night, and for a moment I’m paralyzed and don’t feel right, cause eternity the future something out of time is staring at me. And sitting

here

makes what I see all too real, all too possible, all too real for me.

And the Sun keeps sinking, just like my thinking, and “No, hun, I haven’t been drinking” I can’t help considering how a life so covered in blinking bulbs; how a jeweled hand could smash everyone of them – broken <body>ies tinkling on the pavement – then cry when there’s no more light.

All the lights’ve gone out and it’s my own doing, result of my own mind brewing, result of all this poison stewing – blessing and privilege thrown to the floor. “Let some <body> else clean it up.”

Then that candle in the sky, snuffs out and the carpet above is stained with wine blood, purple that bruises and smears to charcoal black.

There’s nothing left to see. So, I follow suit, and say goodbye. Cause this is one <body> that don’t belong

here

While you’re here, check out some of these other great poems!

Self-Surgery

Writers will always have stories to tell and those stories will always matter.

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