a glass of whiskey
rests on the bar
within hand’s reach
where between pulls
I pick at scabs
I didn’t know I had
and do not bleed
recollecting a time
before scars came
to constitute my skin
before I’d forgotten
what it’s like to endure
hardships then, win
nobody stares
less at their own hands
or into their own drink
like the flame
of an open fire
consuming memories
lost, longed for
or imagined.
the white speck dancing by the window
reminds of snow when life was lived there.
those cold winds forcing the collar tight
the bears in the lightly dusted Boreal
preparing the last of their supplies before
the ground freezes over until spring
children begging the sky for a storm
to crown the water tower hill for sledding
ahead of mothers calling them home
the romantic, for a white Christmas.
the young woman, to blanket herself
with her lover by an open flame.
for crisp star filled nights where the only
clouds are of spoken words whispered
in the knowledge of being heard. yes. yes.
I miss the north on days like these.
I miss home.
perfect circles
I don’t stare often enough at the moon.
even tonight, knowing this, I turned my gaze
why would I stare at the moon
when I can’t stomach the face in the mirror?
cratered and sometimes bright, a face, mine
daily overcome by the creeping shadow
longing for the completing darkness
to dissolve what was into a gentle glowing ring
∞
Andrew Lafleche is an award-winning poet and author of six books. His work uses a spoken style of language to blend social criticism, philosophical reflection, explicit language, and black comedy. Andrew enlisted in the Army in 2007 and received an honorable discharge in 2014. Visit www.AJLafleche.com for more information.
Books by the Author:
No Diplomacy (2015)
Shameless (2016)
A Pardonable Offence (2017)
Ashes (2017)
One Hundred Little Victories (2018)
On Writing (2018)
