by Jade Nicole Beals
A whispered line overheard in the night as I slept from through the open window that overlooks mostly unpopulated woods: I considered, half-dreaming, The line has been spoken protectively, ‘though I am safe, and I fell back to sleep. I think, in any case, you would still have come. A surgeon might say, ‘For the good of it, cut off the limb, any way; you don’t need it. It’s of no use to you, whichever way you do.’ Of no use to you, but I felt it, and still do. A loss is a path turning toward home if the stars weren’t out, and the street lamps glared with precision, and the fog drifts in like pointing fingers, and drifts back out. The woman weeping in the poem is me now sleeping on her pillow, fingers soft, on her side, her forehead still, breathing soft, lips soft and silent…far away, near the sweet blossoming freesia without wings, cascades a waterfall, where at the first turn away, silence unlays the grandest semblance of bliss within the loss.