Marchmont Road

by Gianna Sannipoli

I don’t say your name anymore
unless it’s on a street sign
or accidentally in prayer.
Everything you said was gone
came back as coincidence.
I cross Greenhill,
to Marchmont Hardware,
on the street where
a postman says your name
and I have to tell him
you don’t love me
but this tie clip is opal
and metaphorically engraved
and I meant to send it earlier
but you left before I could
so now it’s getting there
after the fact and
we’re always a bit late,
but that’s our thing,
and I tell him I don’t know
if you’ll write back
but you always do,
eventually, kind of,
so I desperately need
to open a P.O. box
under your name,
that way when you’re ready,
angel-winged creature,
of deep, seraphic breaths,
you can finally tell me
the reason you followed
the marble birds in flight,
and most importantly,
what God tastes like.

Comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s