by Paul Hostovsky

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It’s the almost that I love

about a gray day

like today. In weather

like this, I almost

feel a kind of joy:

the heavy sky, the feeling

in the air of imminent release.

I feel like I could almost

cry. Cry as I haven’t

since I was a boy.

Because I haven’t let myself.

The overcast sky says: almost.

The charged air says: could.

You could do this.

You could let yourself go,

feel the thunderous sobs,

wave after wave, shoulders

heaving, lungs emptying

in that jagged way

that almost looks like

laughter. And the hiccuping

like a child that comes after.

It could feel so good,

says this feeling in the air.

Almost like joy, says the sky.

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© Paul Hostovsky

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Paul Hostovsky (he/him) makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter and braille transcriber. His poems and essays appear widely online and in print. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac.

Find out more on his website paulhostovsky.com.

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