Me, Dissembling
for Pamma
Afraid one of us will tear even more,
right before uttering my final word,
I carefully pocket scissors,
and choose to sit in silence,
thin as a paper cut-out.
How do we move forward,
you and I?
We seem swept down dark rivers of thought.
No rules have been broken, unless
my mindless chattering counts.
We merely grew older, more separate,
attuned to our own delusions of time.
The sky plumbs each fathom
of every star we have ever counted.
We have lost such minutes among the sharp outlines
we tore along the way.
If I could raise you up, would we go
on one wing, the white one?
Let’s say I could take you into starlit waters.
Let’s say we could hover, seagulls on kite strings.
Let’s say I could capture the wide white wing tips
of an ocean, the first breaths of a fine spring.
Oh, then I would blow my breaths of life
to you, refashion all of our regrets!
I would fill your paper silhouette.
Surely the white wing will do?
.
Susan Morse lived in Maine for thirty years, but moved to the Willamette Valley in 2016. A member of the Oregon Poetry Association, she also frequently reads at the Salem Poetry Project. Her chapbook, In the Hush, was published June 2019 by Finishing Line Press, and she has other poems in publications such as Cream City Review, Willawaw Journal, and The Mom Egg.
