Cobalt

Coy
Yearwood

Kevin
Grossman

Eric
Meyer

Larry
Blazek

W. Adam
Mandelbaum

My grandparents lived in yellow,
burnished foothills.
They cared for a minister's house,
while he was away
doing God's work.
I played near a stream,
shooting bottles and cans
with my .22 rifle,
but never my own feet.
The stream slowed,
bubbled into a pond on the property.
A flat, lifeless pond,
with green surface muck;
algae afghan to cloak
the dead things that once lived.
I stared into that pond many times
and I wanted to know
if anything still moved
with rhythmic assurance
like my own heart.
Bitter lucid
foretell
ripple.

This pond used to thrive:
minnows darted, skeeter bugs
skated across the surface,
lilies broad green,
clear water shimmered,
sun bright, life glowed,
sparrows drank in spring,
played in summer,
washed in fall,
flew in winter.
Distant hawks made patient circles,
while bullfrogs on the banks
filled throats like balloons,
belched songs of tadpole youth,
and tales that changed,
disappeared,
passed away.

I hated shooting that rifle,
my hips could never withstand
choice realities soaked in daydream sludge.
Then the minister returned,
God's work done,
and my grandparents left,
because
people do
when things are done.
Things are done.
Our pond, now lifeless,
reflections of past fade foul,
sunset dipped ashen.
We settle in divided paths.
I settled walking away, backwards,
grieving loss.
I suffer, too.
My feet bleed, throb,
soak in a dry pond.
Bitter sputter
fallout
ripple.