Brian Curling   © 2012 All Rights Reserved

Second Attempt


Iím in Charlottesville, hanging out after brain surgery.

Never have I felt so snowy. You are more caught in a globe
than ever. And I am outside, but in the real blizzard.
A scar runs from ear to ear
and I am told I will always wear a winter hat.
Itís not so cold here. In fact, I sweat.

Alaska still connected, but family is here.

They didnít cut out Alaska. That part is still intact
under a fold they call the Ridge. If I squint
I can see the pines along Chelseaís Shoulder.
Unfortunately, half of you is gone.
Up ahead, you turn at a profile and smile.

Call me or write me.

I do not think you've received my first letter.
My hands shake more than before so the lid
to the piano is closed
and the music drifts in, unrecognizable as sheets.
I pause and wait at the window, about noon.

Thinking, thinking of you.

Iíve been given photos. A piece of the bullet
in a velvet drawstring bag.
They say you left without a trace like the other man
but that youíll come back. A year is long I know.
Like a guardian, under my pillow.

 

 

Bryce Lillmars
Copyright © 2012  

Bryce Lillmars is currently living and teaching English in Oaxaca, Mexico. His poems are forthcoming in The New York Quarterly and Nimrod.


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