by Julia Paul
Strangers fling nips from their cars.
A widow in the window sees Jesus
in a halo of streetlight.
Gray suit of grief hangs around
like a stray cat. Neighbors once sat
on plump couches playing charades.
A loaf of bread lands on the floor
like a toppled gargoyle.
Like a lost soul in a dark alley,
the wind wanders through the kitchen.
Sometimes you need to ricochet off objects
to find your way,
follow one sharp angle after another.
Today, everyone’s singing the same tune.
Some from their balconies.
Some from doorways.
We’re alone together.
This is a love letter to tomorrow.
To begin again is everything.
In tomorrow’s hands, the bread rises.
We’ll chew through the feast
of blessings.
When the choir finally takes over the song,
where do you want to go?
Cutting through alleys and backyards
and parking lots, tomorrow will get there first.
We’re crouched waiting for the gun.
Our braided breath stirs the air.
Movement. Call it memory/history/hope.
It’s what ignites us.
Someone extends a hand. A firm hand.
Trembling hand. Ambitious hand.
Empty hand. Arthritic. Hand
that drops the knife. Hand
that lifts the veil. That holds the shovel.
That holds on. Hand over hand.
Hands touching.
The possibilities of that.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Julia Paul is president of Riverwood Poetry Series, a long-standing reading series in Hartford, Connecticut. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in literary journals, both national and international, including Comstock Review, New Mexico Review, Windmills, Fourth River, Connecticut Review, Minerva Rising, Mom Egg Review and Radar Poetry, as well as several anthologies, including From Under the Bridges of America and Forgotten Women. Her chapbook, Staring Down the Tracks, was published by The Poetry Box (2020) and her book, Shook, by Grayson Books (2018). She served as Manchester, Connecticut’s first Poet Laureate and is an elder law attorney.