Perhaps it’s not the perfume
but the sting
of running barefoot
from the cottage
if someone shrieks in the night,

boughs that were meant to hurt
yet caught drops of rain
and held them glistening
and delicate in the moonlight
appearing between parted clouds,

and the gift of frankincense
mixed with late summer dampness,

the stillness
where breath hangs on every word
though there is nothing to say
and no one to say it to.

* poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.


Bio:

Bruce Meyer is author of 64 books of poetry, short stories, flash fiction, and non-fiction. His most recent collection of poems is McLuhan’s Canary (Guernica Editions, 2019), and his next book of poems is currently the project for the University of Windsor Publishing Practicum and will be published by Black Moss Press in 2021. He lives in Barrie, Ontario, with his wife and daughter.

Article tags