Poets’ Brew – April


April’s prompt from YCP is, “In my heart, I knew….”

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Linda C. Brown

Documentary

This photo is empty
The house, too.  No one home.
The refrigerator empty 
no milk,
no lettuce 
or tomatoes
no bread  
or brisket 
scraps all thrown away 
a once greasy frying pan 
washed, dried, put away
forgotten.

In the garage no blue Buick  
with out-of-state plates 
no lawn mower caked 
with dried Bermuda grass, 
no pruning sheers 
or edging tools, rusted 
abandoned they now hang
in a stranger’s storage shed.  
The cement floor has been
swept clean of rainbows  
stains scrubbed clean and dry.  

In this photo no family
gathers around a mahogany table
no canapés sit on silver trays 
no circles of wine on white tablecloths.  
No lipstick smears on bone china cups.

What remains?  A glossy 4×6 
of nothing, faded memories
of a life that might have been.


Elaine Smith

A sneakstorm
               after Maxine Kumin


is a March rain shower
comes while you’re sleeping.
You hear it, maybe, if your sleep is restless.
Or maybe not.  Only, if not,
it slips into your dreams.

The sky is clear when you go to bed,
but you wake knowing it has come and gone.
It must have rattled the roof
fallen past the open window,
trees soughing 
eaves dripping. 

Or you know because you smell
damp earth in the air before
you’re quite awake.

Or really, you know only later, 
after the morning rush 
when you see
darkened earth in the flower beds, 
darkened wood of the porch.

These sneak storm dreams refresh the day,
dreams of grief and loss,
a liquid change in the present moment, 
sap-like, 
always too little, always unremembered,
not at your bidding but never exhausted,
unstaunched as rising tree sap
greening the peach snag.


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