Poetry by gary lundy

​it can't matter. 


you touch. your body. his fingers deliberate pleasure. his body aflame.

you touch. but to end up here not here. in your bed. on your couch.

you touch to feel again. 

a train passes shakes windows. moves dust from room to room. tilts a framed photography.

his small hands. nails that bite leaving scars. you believe. when you touch harder than you can bear. you believe time stops.

yet each minute a story written. displaced.

you touch your body his hands his body still remains. a distance before longing. a distance impossible to comprehend.

a mere touch. to whisper his name. to whisper i have always loved you. to call him back to your arms.

place a candle near photograph. pray the house burns down. pray you awaken his blue eyes. bird less stark sky.

​


​
an early evening. a fall 


while framing photographs. a bar stool. hit the back of head. never regain consciousness. 

many watch as you slowly peacefully pass out of life. 

no wonder saturday feels like thursday. a precisely right time you take a final breath. my sister dies suddenly too. two cats lick face cheek tears. 

a wail failing. too many cigarettes later. you recess behind eyes. voice unconcerned. initial attempt at absence. who responds in manner a last time.

that day. you give me packaged crackers. two. i think about taking your picture. and of course it now rains. 

you understand i can not come with you. the small town once shared together too small. too filled with voices.

​

gary lundy's poems have appeared most recently in Fence, Meta/Phor(e)/Play, Cutbank: Weekly Flash Prose & Prose Poetry, Setu: Western Voices Special Edition, and Alexandria Quarterly. His most recent book, each room echoes absence, was released by FootHills Publishing (March 2018). gary is a retired English Professor and queer living in Missoula, Montana.