Poem of the Week, by C.L. O’Dell

Ever tried to imitate someone else’s handwriting? It’s hard and fascinating and full of speculation. What’s up with this big poofy T? Is this long straight line at the end supposed to stand in for the last five letters of their surname?

Trying to form letters the way someone else does makes me think how we breathe each other’s air but not quite, walk in each other’s footsteps but not quite, know our dearest ones so well, but…do we? I love this poem.


Forsythias
, by C.L. O’Dell

I think about time.
The forsythias
and the man singing
in the car ahead of me.

When I enter the space
the same shape
he made a moment
before me,

where is the music,
the taste of honey
in his mouth and now
mine, the thought

of kissing his wife good-bye
and the words of a song
lifting off my tongue
as if from memory, but his?

What is mine stays with me,
my heart in the glitter
of his heart. My dreams
have no bones. Love

is never saved in layers
of rock. So much of me
will never be found
on this earth.

For more information about C.L. O’Dell, please visit his website.
alisonmcghee.com
Words by Winter: my podcast

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