My heart

out of its cave

naked

glistening

exposed:

sun and wind and rain

his penetrating gaze.

Grisly protrusions

frayed edges

gaping holes

clumsily bound:

baling wire

tape

and glue.

He does not look away

nor chide

nor shame

nor laugh.

Instead

he lies next to me

feels

my rhythm

sees

from my eyes

hears

the crawling of ants

the growing of grass

the whisper of trees

secret after secret.

A smile

before plucking

my flawed beating muscle

and returning it

with a surgeon’s precision

all knowing.

Colleen Sohn

And when his sorrow broke

the pictures fell from the wall.

From memory

he drew her.

The hair he braided while she slept.

The fingers that skimmed his.

The red lips he kissed

everywhere

sleeping and awake

places unknown

in dreams.

Then he loosened the knot

to let her go.

And she soared

to become spring.

A distant field

evergreen

that keeps him young.

Colleen Sohn

For twenty-two dollars I can wear the scent that is my grandfather.

Silky lotion in a black tube.

Arsenic, a drop of poison returns me to childhood and a certain morning light.

Of summer and sleepovers and waking to the bubble and hiss of the percolator.

There is milk with coffee and sugar, brimming in a dainty cup scattered with roses.

There is tobacco from a tin and pipe smoke, heady, sweet, and fruity.

An ocean of traffic, wave after wave in our ears.

We are there, together and separate, cosy on flowered cushions.

A plaid robe and pink nightgown, slippers and bare toes.

No words spoken, no words needed, hearts filled with love.

Colleen Sohn