By Marit Ericson

A rough year can sound like gravel,

can taste like growing old. It can lay

low in an upstate apartment, take

night classes, wait tables for next

to nothing. Seeing no one but the

newsman and the rain. Three years

become grey, then distant. The salt

pinch of her skin, her dark gaze,

that night at the bonfire when she

touched you best—that was her, then.

Yes, a dull pain lingers in the mind.

And paving gives way to usual peaks.

Yet you feel like you can feel new,

sometimes. A future rains on the wind-

shield, like this: and merely fans away.

_________________

Marit Ericson is a graduate student at Rutgers University. She likes sad movies and clever comedians, as well as clever movies and sad comedians, and music. If you see a strand of oaks in a yard and said oaks make you happy once in a while, you are probably okay in her book. Her poetry has recently appeared in The Quarterlife Quarterly and other venues.

Posted by Mel. View all posts by Mel
Saturday, October 22nd, 2011 12:51 am
Categories: Current: 5.4, Poetry