The phantom leaves traces

parachutes

propellers on high

a tiny check mark

seen at 7:18.

I knew the phantom as flesh and bone

raven curls

eyes stolen from the sea.

Letters and words over years and miles

left to wither

into the dead silence

of space.

The universe doesn’t give a whit about the phantom

nor me

nor you.

It hurtles us

into each other

into stellar bodies

into nothing at all.

I knew the phantom for an instant

flashes of bicycles

shaved legs

tender smiles.

Now

only silence

tied

but drifting

straining that fine thread.

The phantom’s cares

fear? aversion? revulsion?

cloaked

unknown.

The universe’s cares as open as sky

casting stones that burn through atmospheres

toxic interstellar clouds

brilliant stars now deathly black holes.

Don’t let us be a black hole, dear phantom.

Don’t let us disappear

not while we still have breath.

Speak

speak of fear

speak of wonder

speak of sky

speak of waves

speak of any thing

just speak

before you can’t

before I can’t

before the universe

renders us two dust motes in the cosmos

unremembered

unbound.

Colleen Sohn

One church bell rings

Singing out to a warm bed

While one mood is painted on the sky.

One cat purrs and stretches

Prostrating on the chair

While one licks the plate clean.

One flash of genius

Slipping into the ether

While one dreams in sighs.

One bird flutters

Flying into the trees

Ticking the seconds of our lives.

How many remain?

Colleen Sohn

You made space for me

that postage stamp square

under the table and surrounded:

chairs, junk, dust bunnies,

the weight of your burdens.

I never stopped shoveling

through the detritus

that collection of your worst days ever.

A fruitless hope to find your hand reaching for mine at the other end

a glimpse maybe, in my direction

in passing

at your whim

the stuff of years:

anger, sadness, and confusion.

And me with my own burdens on my back,

yet glad for your dribs and drabs.

Happy, even,

for the impossibly tipped scale.

Then I saw my own face in the mirror,

and not yours,

leapt from that precarious height,

and away

from you.

Colleen Sohn

…

 p.s. Oh me, oh my, this is not about the dear hubster!

Up there

on your high horse

you grope in the darkness.

Blind to

azure

and

the midday sun.

Blind to

delicate wild flowers

braided in my hair.

Blind to

the sticky sweat of toil

and the gallop of my heart.

Blind to

 fractured limbs

and murmurs of pain.

You only know

the ache of your saddle

the blisters on your hands

the tempest on your horizon

an unfathomable loss.

Dismount

and

discover

it

and

we

are all the same.

Colleen Sohn

And the clouds were high enough to catch the sun, leaving canyons of darkness where the sky was open. The opposite of being earthbound, that sadness that befalls us when we raise our eyes to the obfuscation of azure. There will be no pleasure of moon and stars. But this glorious opposite, this pleasure of wanting more clouds, brilliantly billowing, climbing higher to keep the light aloft, and with it, a sense of awe. Of what remains grounded, wings clipped or unwilling, only gods ascend. Or, perhaps, dreams as we chase them, into the past or future, moments to which we cling and pin our hopes. All that we cannot resurrect, all that has yet to come, illuminated by sunlight on climbing water vapor. That sense of thanksgiving, always, for seeing the world as it is. The dust of others, ancients, the beloved, mine. The gift of renewal.

Colleen Sohn