by Trish Burns
Joey slips behind me, mewing
as, unthinking, I replace
the cups and pens, the writing pad
in the box marked “Kitchen.”
He purrs against my legs – I touch him –
grumbles as the front door clicks.
He will be better fed.
My home is not my home now,
Nor have I elsewhere, nor am I fed.
I must be gone, and I am gone –
ghosting between the houses
which sleep on in the early light.
How lovely the terrace in the near-day,
a shard of peeling paint – the last thing.
I approach the river of sound
and see my angel coming.
He is wrapped in cloud and thunder.
There will not be much pain,
I shall not see my son’s face in the glass.
How beautifully the world is closing,
the rain on my cheek, the eastering light.
My angel is here, I step forward
and meet him, face to face.
(Posted with permission)