This poem was originally published in the Autumn/Winter 2010 issue of Bearings magazine.
Sometimes my lower lip begins to tremble
from grief so old
the sadness is senseless.
Twenty years ago,
it made me insensible,
when my cool cheeks flushed hot
with disbelief
and then were cooled again
where I lay against the red tiled floor
on the third and a half floor,
Three Rue Chabrier.
It’s never predictable
always catches me unaware
and renders me speechless, if not senseless
now, when memories are dimmed
almost invisible
in the shadow of ancient grief
somehow recalled
at a stop light
just after smiling.
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