Poetry By Peggy Hammond

      ​Christian Collins CC



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What will I say now,
this is mine, what once
was yours. Sweaters,
coats, books, pots
and pans, sandals 
with tired soles. I stand as
if in a tinker’s graveyard.
Objects in slanted stacks 
form narrow passages. This
to keep, that to give.
I have surely lost my
way, my candle 
no more than nub.
A dog’s howls brace
the darkness, 
melancholy music. 
In Virginia, fall’s pumpkins
dot fields, a riot of color
defying foggy mornings.
I could return there,
cross that bridge where we
stopped, our laughter
too loud but happy. I
could feel mist on
my face again, revel
in yellows and reds. 
But no matter the map,
there is no road 
to where you have 
gone.





The Permanence of Constellations        


Your cousin. Bedroom.
Rifle. Bone fragments. 
The patterns you.
Can’t erase. The 
sheets you burned. 
Ash rising. Crisping 
to nothing. 
Fireworks. Without
splendor. I tried to
comfort. But you.
You couldn’t be. You.
Closed. Off. 
I understood. Understand.
Sometimes I can’t
remember the word
I want. Cushion. Keys.
Separation.
Can’t remember how
spring eases winter.
Do you remember our
walks? How we strolled
to the park, dusk
wrapped around us,
a dark shawl. How we 
curved ourselves 
into too-small swings. 
Pushed off hard.
Let our toes touch
glowing stars. Graze
the horizon. Our fingers
traced shapes. Big 
dipper. Little dipper. We 
let ourselves forget. 
All the way home,
moondust fell from
our hair.

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Peggy Hammond’s recent poems appear or are forthcoming in The Blue Mountain Review, Thin Air Magazine, Spare Parts Lit, The Hyacinth Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Olit, Club Plum, UCity Review, Heimat Review, and elsewhere. She is a Best of the Net nominee and the author of The Fifth House Tilts (Kelsay Books, 2022). Learn more at https://peggyhammondpoetry.com/