It’s like the clatter of a knife
in an empty mayonnaise jar,
an August night when hope
lost its feathers in the parking lot.
Singing verses to an old song
at your request, I kept going
even after your taillights passed
out of sight down Libbie Avenue.
Stuck in a simple harmony
holding stardust in a clenched fist
you left, but there was enough heat
rising from the asphalt to fool me,
because I believed the lyrics,
how in my life I love you more.
Unable to hear what you won’t say
I wait for you to turn around.
Shann Palmer is a Texan living in Virginia where she hosts readings, workshops, and generally nourishes other poets. Published online and in print, she has work in Short, Fast, and Deadly.
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