Absence

by Laura Romig

The baby snowbird who blinks in summer sun, 

unprepared for all that light

Flitting and twinkling

And your eyelashes in the early morning

When the sun streams in the glass 

And splinters through a thousand pieces

And sleep is grasping at your ankles

Tugging soft, persistent.

The roll of soft grass outside the city

Scraggled weeds that grow thick, dotted with runaway wildflowers

Way out, hills that bound away in divine leaps  

And the roots of your hair rippling with sureness

The wild running growth

Of a thing that moves in all directions.

And the kissing corners of apartment towers

The wiry fire escapes where lovers lean

Stuccoed in their portraits

Baby blue and blushing

And those same kissing corners of your mouth

Little raindrops pinning in a soft smile

The sun in all its radiance

And heads that turn to watch.

And the hush of winds at night,

Bitter cold biting in the mountains and

hot, breathy in the city.

The empty breath when you go,

the unanswered question

she spends her whole life asking.

Your absence wouldn’t be noticed.

Your absence would rip the world in two

In a way that would leave no joy,

no love, no friendship, no blessings,

no wind, no mountains, no breath,

no sun, no kisses, no weeds,

no flowers, no slopes, no rest,

no absence,

no.

Nothing worth noticing.