when she came home crying
I knew you were dead
afterwards at the market
I would pick
up pot roasts
chickens
a bag of onions
try to judge
what 4 pounds 9 ounces
felt like

I closed my eyes

constructing your fingers
from cabbage

leaves opening slowly
first one leaf
then another

I stared for a long time
at miniature shoes

doll shoes

your feet
could have stepped here
I think

so I steal them

take them home

hide them
in a shoe box
that looks like a coffin

this way

no one
will speak
of you again

 
 
 
19 comments
John Gurney

I’ve been writing poetry since I was a little kid. I think that poetry is probably my native language. In my best work, I think that I’m able to create something that feels like truth. If you find something in my words that move you, something that makes you smile , something which gives you pause for reflection , then I’m grateful. I sell real estate from time to time, and in moments of grace or despair, joy or terror, times of wonder and gratitude, I sail about in my good old ketch , Further.


Further - a distance that can’t be measured.