My friend,

Anita S. Pulier

I know how this works.

When the funeral din has passed
ashes scattered, food gone
stories told and re-told
the world transformed by absence
objects once familiar
now threaten as
you lean into the silence
searching for relief,

even her
beat up broom
rests at a disloyal tilt
perfectly willing to sweep
for younger
less gnarled hands.

And there you are,
sinking into her body
creases in the worn fabric
of her ancient sofa
believing you
will never see
beyond the gaping
hole of her absence.

Finally on an ordinary day
with a million chores undone
you will take a walk
in a blooming garden
and you will be unwilling
to miss another second.

And that is when
this journey will have been completed
in the sloppy way any journey is completed
when you don’t really have a destination.

            





 

Anita S. Pulier, For years, raced from a New Jersey tennis court at 7 am to a legal court in NJ or Manhattan or to her Brooklyn law office. The most poetic writing she encountered was not hers but that of an adversary who wrote, “The plaintiff’s argument holds no fruit.” Happily, when she retired she traded legal writing for poetry. Anita’s poems have been published in many journals and in four anthologies as well as her three poetry chapbooks and her book The Butcher’s Diamond.

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