You piled in the center of your kitchen
most of the junk from ten years that
hadn’t been taken for debts. What you own,
though, is negligible: stacks of lit mags
cropped from the office, movie posters,
bent-up novels, a few poetry books.
Cds from the ancient age of cds. Only
the pictures, you said, you were keeping;
and of them, too, I could take my pick
if any caught my eye. Oh, and the garbage-
bags full of clothes that didn’t fit. I had
no need for any of it. It’s just that pile
that stays with me like a grainy scene
of a film on pause. It’s that pile I see
you preparing for a bonfire; the kindling
of your life crashed together into one kitchen-
sized blow. And from where I stand this’ll be
no slow burn; but the quick extinguishment
of ten years, three girlfriends, two degrees.
It’s hard to know the thing we mean
when we exit in a hurry, either too soon
or too late, with no awards or ring;
but it’s a kind of ripeness, rightly timed,
that departure brings, and what we hunt:
that full part of a pint left past closing;
a sign that reads: go bereft and go now,
and now. This is just a start.
Darren Bifford checks the smoke alarms.
Published On: June 21, 2010
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/100621a.htm