It’s ironic, my lying awake
with thoughts wrestling. Half fly toward peace,
where it’s far and away and there’s no cause to take
any meaning once held to by tethers.
And half seem to perch on the pillow beside
me. In deep nestled sleep, you’re released
from the burden of words – it was ‘luv you’ you sighed
as you dove into mountains of feathers.
I am Wrong Because
I don’t understand you
but I feel your chalk-moon eyes scratching
I choke on my endless confession.
How many times must I carve these same words?
Then I realize I’ve forgotten what to write
and you’re still there when I wake up.
Sleet raps windows
like fingernails of the forgotten-dead.
They plead to come back
into collective memory.
We who are gathered here today
are huddled in safe numbers –
in the kindness of perfumed memories.
A few of the old understand
how we are related.
They whisper names
careful not to awaken the dead.
It’s late; their shivering hands
reach out to the frightened young:
I need to tell you my story’.
M.J. De Angelis lives on the Lamprey River in Durham, New Hampshire and enjoys fly fishing. His pieces have appeared in: “Third Wednesday”, “Chiron Review”, “Wild Goose Poetry Review”, “The Blue Hour”, “Scholars and Rogues Poetry”, “Sonnetwriters.com”, and “The Penwood Review”. Although his first passions are poetry and fly fishing, he pays the bills writing software.