I Hate That; What Remains by Kendra Whitfield

I Hate That

Today I am held

at arm’s length from my dreams.

The fog envelops the velvet hand

that holds them up to an invisible sun.

Tomorrow they will sparkle

sharp and silver

against an impossibly blue sky

but today they are shrouded.

I hate that.

The older I get, the less patience I have for mystery.

I try to wonder but I can’t.

I try to wander but I can’t.

I hate that.

This town is too small for detours,

there is only the circuit from home

to the pool to the grocery store

and my imagination is cramped

and dulled from repetition.

I hate that, too.

Today my husband shoveled the driveway,

cleared it of the confounding snow.

I hate it.

My imagination is frozen in a puff of white

that lost its magic before it ever

fell from clouds too distant to care,

and now the cloud hovers so low,

it holds my dreams in its vaporous fingers,

and the air is thick with malevolence.

I hate it.

I cannot see.

I cannot see.

I hate that, too.

What Remains

An empty dog bowl

Over-grown grass and a left-handed mower I can’t start

One side of the bed icy cold

Spruce boughs dragging darkness, desperate for pruning

Crates of worthless comic books in careful plastic sleeves

Black knot fungus in the May Day

Your grandmother’s threadbare towels

An ancient, pocked elm creaking over the driveway

Mouldering paperbacks

The hammock you only set up for your sister’s visits

An invitation to a wedding you had no intention of attending

stuck to the fridge with a magnet from the vacation you refused to take.

All the things you wouldn’t fix or do or throw away are gone now.

All that remains is my heart:

a scratched and hollowed shell in this abandoned nest.