Is it so strange after two years, still no peace with your leaving? The horizon never moves, lying quietly in its bed of distant scars and slants. I look above the tension wires over the sky darkening at four o'clock. The wire leads somewhere, brings something into a house where the cabinets are stocked with spoons, albums, statuettes, and the walls carry their framed memories into forgetting. The light is depending on the light; a few square feet and a little space is born where eyes can meet in relative simplicity. Something like this happens under these roofs around me, between midnight and when the beginning of the dark morning comes. There's a hidden hour there, swinging back and forward. I hear you then, afraid of the words that could come back without your voice. I have learned to listen gradually, as gradual as life itself, unknowingly and blundered through the little hours given us to be simple. Tonight I shall play a melody half a century old at least, and let the hopelessness settle into the dominant, no longer wanting anything to echo in an empty room, the speaking to you, remembering nothing of what we knew, acknowledging only love.
About the Poet:
Originally from Ukraine, Askold Skalsky has had poems in many magazines and online journals in the USA and in literary publications in Europe, Canada, Australia, and Bangladesh. A first collection, The Ponies of Chuang Tzu, was published in 2011.