[Issue 16 / Feb 16]

You are the shadow in red

many limbed and fang toothed
vision of old
compelling me
to gather remnants
of an afternoon in a garden
where my father’s father
taps a stick
to make a point
while tea is served.

I do not yet know
the secret of heartbreak
the language of women
the dilemma of faith
the gift of exile.

All that waits for me now
is the garden
where you are the shadow
many feathered and swift
nesting
in red
oleander.

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