On and On
Nothing about the moment
Is singular. I apologize.
I mean magnificent. I mean
The leaves are a reflective green.
And that is no different
From yesterday when I heard
His breath, and it was only
A leaf. It was only.
The wind is as dismissive
As a hush. In that it passes by
Like a father’s hand
Without congratulation.
There is a significance
In the culture of grief,
In that I kiss a man’s lips
And consider a downward leaf.
In that he isn’t really here
But encroached in a corner
Of the room. Where I smell him
And that is haunting.
Having had him On and on,
It’s strange to grasp the air
And feel only the sheath of green
Tugging back.
.
Anthony Aguero is a queer writer in Los Angeles, CA. His work has appeared, or will appear, in the Carve Magazine, Rhino Poetry, 14 Poems, Redivider Journal, Foglifter, and others. He has received two Pushcart Prize nominations and has his first forthcoming collection of poetry, Burnt Spoon Burnt Honey, with Flower Song Press.
←previous ••• next→
