This is a wonderful poem about how a temporary situation can become such a part of you that you grieve it when you have to move on.
Temporary Job
Minnie Bruce Pratt
Leaving again. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be
grieving. The particulars of place lodged in me,
like this room I lived in for eleven days,
how I learned the way the sun laid its palm
over the side window in the morning, heavy
light, how I’ll never be held in that hand again.
No comments:
Post a Comment