7/30/2022 Poetry by Karen Paul HolmesAdrien Millet CC
Eight Months Beyond - For Chris (1956-2017) The sky kills me, its sunset blood-red, each minute smearing a deeper pigment above the mountains’ black tips. Solo on this dock, not a boat nor soul near-- a rare chance to wail, Are you there? Two mallards drift by, parting the sky reflected on the lake. They hush me, the drake’s teal head glinting. A lone female appears then moves into the place where last light has bruised the water purple-black. Bridge Arching the blue Hiwassee River, this structure over a depression, this means of transition takes me to the top of the dam where I can almost touch birds. They glide at my height, the lake’s islands and slow-motion boats below. Or a ship’s bridge, with its helm and wide-angle view cruising St. Lucia’s coast. I wrote in my journal, horizon of volcano peaks, jagged outline drawn by the low sun. In music, two bridges: A piece of wood supporting gut strings to transmit vibrations from Stradivarius into my body, nearly dropping me to knees. And also, the link between parts of a song like George Harrison shifting to “I don’t know how,” then back again to his guitar gently weeping. All those bridges, you were for me when you lived. And also verb: bridging me over the chasm of divorce from half-ness to wholeness, and then after death, lessening the gap from loss to certainty that love doesn’t stop. Only with your help have I arrived at this cove. My new husband and I stand hand-in hand in the last quarter of our lives. Silvergrass waves. Our harmonics hum. We watch fishers move their boats from favored shoal to favored shoal. for Chris, 1956-2017 and for Mark, 1951- Karen Paul Holmes is a freelance business writer but poetry is her passion. She hosts The Side Door Poets in Atlanta, GA and a monthly open mic in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her poetry books are No Such Thing as Distance (Terrapin, 2018) and Untying the Knot (Aldrich, 2014) and publications include Diode and Valparaiso Review. She’s the current “Poet Laura” for Tweetspeak Poetry. Comments are closed.
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