by Kathryn Haemmerle
Most mornings we sit
at the balcony table in negative space. It’s summer so the sun turns
us to silhouette. Harsh sunlight obscures
more than most people think. If you were to speak I wouldn’t
see your lips move. What is not there is
what is most present.
In white like this you once told
me you would pass summer evenings
watching winged insects meet
Your favorite part was the hectic
rattle of filament—the crazed
flight to nowhere,
And the persistent burning.
Now, I hold a mirror to us and my
figure gets lost in the frame.
When I leave you at the table I stand at the kitchen counter
I’m sick of the nothing-sound of matter.