by Mary Sesso
For the men who entered my body
who no longer are able to dance,
for nights so full of darkness I
invent a story about the sun,
for butterflies and birds that no longer
mimic a rainbow,
for big snows in Michigan
that cover sound, but forget
to show up, for a moon reaching into
a web of fog for the sake of lovers
but when I hold out my hand,
nothing is there,
for those who’ve always done
whatever they were told, for myself
when a mood drained of hope
makes me read sonnets all day,
and for a dead bluebird on the patio
that sings only to a gang of ants.
Mary Sesso is a retired nurse who lives in Bethesda, Maryland. She has recently been published in Ravens Perch, Loch Raven Review, Cutbank Literary Journal and One Art. Her second chapbook, Her Hair Plays With Fire, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022.
Emerge Literary Journal 