Just before he said he had feelings for me
no longer—not even hatred—I watched a movie
about cast fishing lines & rivers
& brothers outliving brothers, the younger
leaning more toward the treacherous: I fell in love
with the reckless one, & couldn't care less
for his dispassion, his flippant erasure
of whole ships & horizons.
Anger at his abandon was quelled by light
diving through attic planks
into the parlor, where in the dollhouse
pianos played & contentment
of the tourist occurred: for being home here
I was homesick elsewhere. The wild
fig tree bloomed. The fruit was sweet
sweet; walking the hall of mirrors
frightened by nothing, not even
the face I was growing into.
Carolyn Srygley-Moore lives in upstate New York with her husband and daughter. Her work has appeared widely in journals to include Antioch, Mimesis, The Pennsylvania Review, and the antiwar anthology, Cost of Freedom. She is a Pushcart nominee and her digital chapbook Enough Light on the Dogwood is available here.
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