as if you’d you expect it
I flinch when he
says it, not a bad reaction
more like the subtle kind that knocks you back a peg
sends you quietly to another moment
time and space
where you take a breath
recover refocus your attention
try to wipe that blank stare from your face that wants
ever so eloquently to confirm what it is you’ve heard
though truth be told it need not
be repeated
he’s said it quite simply the first time
innocently enough a casual remark about
those flowers he likes best
sweet peas
how this afternoon he’d tossed a handful of seed
eager to see whichever ones are destined to bloom
how could he have known after all
another’s nickname for you had been Sweetpea
for a time
not necessarily of the flowering kind
but of a certain innocence perhaps
one of remembering Popeye’s little one
crawling along the floor in that trailing pink sleeper
where you never did catch glimpse
slightest peek of those tiny legs snuggled
deep within
as if you’d you expect it that a man
his favorite flower
would take you back make you flinch
stare that blank momentary stare
the first time
I leave for Vancouver in a few
days, Hazel. something I’m both looking
forward to and dreading. will it
come down to this, saying our goodbyes,
not seeing you when I return?
another workshop at UBC, and I’m still
waiting to hear on that one from Banff.
it’s funny, my beliefs—
if you’ve not yet passed away, you’ll be the first to
hear after me, and if you have,
the first to know before me.
a season of filling the voids, we both
know this don’t we?
the loss of you in my life,
of another’s summer love as well.
concentrate on the writing
concentrate on the writing
and so I am. cocooned in thought, two cats
and a dog on the bed here with me,
morning birds at their lyrical
best, the June sun casting through my open window
with as much grace
as you
maybe we’ve said it all
at least in part, during one of our last cries together
shared smile that hinted through
as I encouraged you for doing it right
the first time, Hazel
whatever it is
you’re having to go through, it’s been with such
strength and style
surely there’s no way
you’ll have to take a second
run at it, my friend
you’ve shown us all the first time.
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Donna Hill lives in British Columbia, Canada with her three sons. She has
been writing poetry since 1998, drawing much of her writing style for
realism from life around her, her family, and work as a child educator. She
is a part time university student earning her Batchelor of Arts in English
and Creative Writing. Donna is also co-creator and poetry editor of Erosha,
an online literary journal of the erotic. Her poems have appeared
internationally, in such issues as Teak Round Up, One Dog Press, Poems
Niederngrasse, Poetry Motel, Peshekee River Poetry, and Slipstream, and have
also been published by numerous literary webzines. "My Hands Write When I
Need Them To," took first prize in Comrades first annual poetry contest in
the UK, and was invited into their anthology entitled, "Uno," 2002. Clean
Sheets Press has published her poem, "Carolina Rain" in their latest
anthology, December 2001. Donna's poetry site can be found at
www.donnamichelehill.com.
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