A poem by Joanne Ellison

Haunting

Two suitcases battered but serviceable
(that’s us) stuffed to the bulging zippers
belted tight around the paunchy middles.
So we leave to live two years in Africa.

And you (newly and rumbustiously) adult
can’t wait to heft us parents to the plane,
re-decorate the house with giant tv screens,
invite your friends to cheer the old bags’ trip.

But look how thoughtfully we leave ourselves
with you, your father’s torso in the soft imprint
of his favorite couch, my thumb smudge on a door,
our books waiting on the night-stand to be read.

Microscopic specks of silvery dust,
we settle on your lashes as you sleep,
everywhere in daily touch with you.
And we all dreamed leaving would be easy.


© Joanne Ellison
Published on leaf press, as a Monday Poem on this page.

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