Wisps
by C.M. Tollefson
Oh hell she yelled
at history, You done
mucked us up—
And she was right, you know,
these scars don’t need to be seen
to be felt: mine are on the fleshy side
of my left forearm—hers behind
her temples to Daphne
in the garden of her mind.
She was mad at the moon
for being bright, for not
loving her back.
And I thought how about that—
God gave us reason, but didn’t
teach us how to use it—being mad
at the thing for being
what it is.
She stubbed her toe
on a repressed memory;
God damn it
she screamed into the night,
This place is such a mess, and when
I turned around to console her
she had been gone for longer
than I had been alive.
C. M. Tollefson is a poet and musician living in Portland, Or. He co-runs the poetry journal Cathexis Northwest Press. He writes as a way of grasping the intangible and making sense out of overwhelming stimulus. His work may so far be found in Anapest, The Esthetic Apostle, Chaleur Magazine, and elsewhere. He harbors a strong distaste for describing himself.
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