by James H Duncan
with delicate increments
she fades
from the earth,
allowing indistinct trace elements
of sunlight and motes
to replace her skeleton
the shape of her face,
limbs, torso, curves
as her stockings slip to the floor,
as her rings clatter, the ribbon
in her hair catches the
early
autumn breeze
coming in from the veranda
and rests
languid upon
the rose-colored daybed
she is gone now
and only photos remain
dust motes for proxy
fingerprints on letters
piles along the sill,
fingerprints along the edge the tub,
along the frying
pan hanging
in the sunlight with the strainer and
toaster and
knife
she is gone now
free by her own design
all that is required of you is accepting
that finality
and walking to the door, turning the key
in the lock, and descending
the five flights
to the cobbled streets
of Berlin and never
looking back, because somewhere
far from here
she is sipping coffee
and running an idle hand
across a sleeping dog’s brow
as a body breathes beside her in white sheets
and she is looking up into a rising
sun you’ll never see,
sleeping in a city you’ve only heard of
dreaming of a life that is
not nearly over, not
for her,
at least
James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review, a former editor with Writer’s Digest, and the author of Dead City Jazz, Berlin, What Lies In Wait, and other collections of poetry and fiction. For more visit www.jameshduncan.com.
Boned 