by Stephen Ruffus
We speak with the past
in the language of grief,
imperceptible
as clouds moving–
cicadas crying desperately,
the sound rises and falls
suddenly in the failing light
of summer heat–
my mother asleep
breathing softly
on the couch
with the floral design,
eyeglasses resting
by her side
narrowing everything
in the room—
in deep winter, in the dark
my father leaves for work,
wearing a light coat
his frame is small his steps quick
as he marches up the long block
to the subway–
he will come home late,
sleep in his chair
for most of the evening,
wake up and head off to bed–
my own children
their memories hidden
under their beds where
no one can find them.
The door is opening
and closing again.
What the moment held
briefly in a sunlit glow
drifts back into
the precincts of the
ordinary.
Stephen Ruffus is originally from New York City. Although he has lived in various parts of the country, he still maintains strong ties there. For much of his professional life he has lived in Salt Lake City, Utah working as a teacher and administrator in higher education. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Shore, Third Wednesday, Poetica Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and the Valparaiso Poetry Review. In the spring, three of his poems will appear in The Woven Tale Magazine. He is a Pushcart nominee.
Emerge Literary Journal 