Cesca Janece Waterfield
………Here’s the small box you put
………our hair in and closed with words
………of a spell, thin gold braid.
………And the crude banjo you made
………and hauled to the river,
………it’s here too. What’s left
………of that brass oil lamp
………that lit the room
………and your hand that lifted up
………the match? Those hands,
………I remember them tonight
………though I know they will never fix me
………another drink after a long day.
………Hourglass you slammed down
………and the sickle-shaped scar
………it left the night I learned
………what I would never forgive,
………they’re here too.
………Everything is lined up
………in rows.
………But I didn’t come
………this far to pore over
………slights and omissions, over
………what’s done. It’s enough
to say we opened
a book, hitched a ride
anywhere, and with nothing
made our way
down miles of streets
at night and when the driver
signaled and turned,
we made up an ending, too.
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Cesca Janece Waterfield is the featured poet for Volume 13 of Emprise Review. Visit her interview page for more info.
