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.