by Doug Raphael
There are days
Adam and I would walk
by the sawdust silt banks
of the Medway River,
to a patch of grass
outside the shadow
of the ancient iron bridge.
We’d sit, smoke a joint,
eat a turkey on rye.
Watch the water ripple over rocks,
where salmon once swam.
We’d talk about how everything moves
a little slower here;
the conversations,
the willow wisping
in the half-dead breeze,
the bee bouncing like a beach ball
from thorn bush to thorn bush,
even the squirrel scurrying up the tree.
We’d stay until the last logging truck
rolls by until dark,
laying on our backs
connecting lite brite dots,
listening to a perfectly wild
chorus of crickets.
Until our eyes flicker shut.
Until our legs leach into the soil
and we drag ourselves
back to my cottage.
There are days
I think of Adam’s
heart exploding
as my heart exploding
like a fluted glass, shattering
into a billion shards inside of me.
On those days
I think back to that patch of grass,
not to numb the pain,
not to live in the past
but to push through,
trying to pick up the pieces of
that fluted glass.
© Doug Raphael
Doug Raphael is an architect living in Nova Scotia, Canada with his three children, wife and Wheaten Terrier. He has been published in The Poetry Lighthouse, The Big Window Review, Oddball Magazine, Discretionary Love, The Groke, and forthcoming in Cerasus Poetry and The Kismet, amongst others. He is enrolled in the creative writing program at Dalhousie University and is working on making writing a full-time gig.
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