Strange by Askold Skalsky

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.