Poetry Day 8: Flavor Elegy Enumaratio


Hope used to taste like the cinnamon sugar mix on cinnamon sugar toast, The crumbly pastry on the edge of lemon meringue pie, the piece of lobster and butter coming out of the shell you bit into,

Hope used to taste like your fingers when you sucked on them, syrup you licked off the plate after the pancakes, the chocolate left on the candy wrapper, the bubbles in your ginger ale.

Now Hope has no taste. It’s a tiny wind that comes out of a little hole somewhere and you feel the invisible breath of it on your cheek for only a half second

before it has flown away. Sometimes you feel it coming from behind, like snow when it is falling diagonal. You turn around and it’s¬†melted.

It’s like a hummingbird, light and fast and almost invisible, hovering near a flower, then not there as clearly as when it was there.

You can’t wait for it, you can’t ask for it, you can’t beg for it, you can’t cry for it, you can’t sigh for it, you can’t scream for it.

It’s in the moment your heart skipped a beat. it’s in the space between words. It’s the mistake in the painting, it’s the cookie you burned, the fall you had that skinned your knee.

Hope has no flavor no more. It lives still, in a quiet silent tiny invisible thread holding on to the air you breathe.

Poetry Assignment: Fog, Elegy, Metaphor


“The fog comes on little cat feet”
is one of my favorite lines.

For you, the fog was a tiger.

You left on Sept. 18, 2013
It’s a foggy death you chose.
You knew you wanted to die.

I have a fantasy of fog:
That I am walking towards the water
in a thick fog
and you emerge.

You say words, explain, convince…
Death was not a fog for you
and all the others who chose it.
It was a sharp knife to cut the pain.

I see you all together.
The suicides under the sea
that we cannot see.

I beat my head on the fog
No comfort.
You can’t hit fog, you can’t swallow fog.
Death swallowed you up that day.
I wait for it to spit you out
So I can see you again as you once were.