Vox Populi
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Connie Post: Estrangement
It’s not like it happens suddenly you step off a curb agree to take a little time away maybe take a trip to another city you look out the window of the bus as the streets pass by a few weeks go by a small building collapses then it’s months and a road buckles and the signs reroute you to a small town a metal bridge sways in the distance you are not sure you can cross it again you live in your house made of clay and sin every day the river runs higher to the underside of the bridge and soon twenty years of silence has passed you watch a burning city from far away and notice a pigeon flying towards you gaining speed pulling the sky’s edges with it finally landing carrying its message to an unmarked grave
(c) Connie Post. From Between Twilight (NYQ, 2023).
Connie Post served as the first Poet Laureate of Livermore, California. Her full-length collections from Glass Lyre Press are Floodwater and Prime Meridian.
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Fresh, new, heartfelt, painful. And more. My favorite (already) poem of yours.
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This is the way of now. This is how it all seems to be step and illness, move. Fall back, accept, wonder.
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Well-said, Barbara
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Connie, another startling, entrancing poem. Your gift with the dual simple/complex power of lines continues to amaze.
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I love this one: the completely unexpected images, that pigeon pulling the shy’s edges with it! SO good!
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