Genevieve’s Week 3: On Sage


You remind me of glass,
mirror, water, winter,
cold. Hands flutter
bleak shadows on
the wall. The rains
struggle on.  I won’t
send you back the
postcard or the box –

their place is beneath
the bed, within the
linen closet. Your
song may be tender,
but it smokes as
strongly as sage burns.
It stings my eyes like
onion. You remind me

of clay, snake, brittle
leaf, quiet growl. We
have met before, I
think, though it was
years ago. Now the
chicharras do not sing.
They drop to the ground,
tired, and the ice thickens.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s