the world spins above our heads
but nothing drops,
—Seán Hewitt, “Suibhne dreams of Eorann”
Like tired soldiers dismissed from formation.
Like a bouquet tossed from a window. Defenestration.
Like a wobbly tooth.
Like hair from an anxious scalp.
The argument. The divide.
Like a hypothesis.
Like a discovery.
Like the unexpected. Expected. Expecting.
Like a bedlamite.
Like the rain, the snow, the sleet,
the detritus of explosions, eruptions, forest fires, nuclear catastrophes.
Like a jumper.
Like the undissolved in a colloid, a cyst, a blister, a bleb.
But nothing really falls in falling out of love.
Like a fade-out at the end of a film,
the shot just disappears.
I wake before dawn
and hear not what
I used to… zephyrs
to my nape. No. No
more lovely mornings.
Now I hear his grunts,
snorts, snores—as well
sighs. I give him that.
He is not happy either,
and I do not hate him.
But the day—now every
day darkens at sunrise.
A native New Yorker, James Penha (he/him🌈) has lived for the past three decades in Indonesia. Nominated for Pushcart Prizes in fiction and poetry, his work is widely published in journals and anthologies. His newest chapbook of poems, American Daguerreotypes, is available for Kindle. His essays have appeared in The New York Daily News and The New York Times. Penha edits The New Verse News, an online journal of current-events poetry. Twitter: @JamesPenha