/ Violet Ford
Poetry — 1 min reading time
Thirty-five degrees under the still-falling snow,
I’d stand outside the door, half hoping you’d show
up in front of me and I’d have to confess
I’d been waiting for you as a saint doing penance —
a threadbare coat in the cold just to beg for your blessing.
I kept delusional vigils, then walked home alone,
knelt in the footsteps you left on the road;
you don’t want a saint and I don’t want a ghost.
Now I shatter your altar, make shards of the past,
walk over you like I’m on broken glass,
strike at myself and imagine your hand.