alice ashe / two poems

Two Duplexes

The snowdrops bloomed the day my father died.

Slips of stars, small and white, like my son’s hands.

The small white stars of my son’s hands slip

between my own.  Two hands I hold, or try to.

Between my own two hands I hold, or try to,

the breath of everyone I’ve ever loved.

The breath of everyone I’ve ever loved

has gone and come and come and gone again.

We go and go, and come and come again,

tonight, dear friend, the stars invisible.

Dear friend, tonight the stars are invisible.

The city air smothers, holds us too close.

What haven’t we smothered, held too close?

The day my son was born the snowdrops died.

---

I hold my breath to hear my sleeping son’s.

Nights drop like rain, and then we’re left alone.

Nights drop like rain, and then we’re left alone

to ponder, silent, everywhere we’ve been.

God, must I ponder everywhere I’ve been?

I had a lover once and now he’s gone.

I had a father once and now he’s gone:

his breath, near death, a shaky off-key song.

My own breath is a shaky off-key song;

it staggers in the dark, labors toward home.

I stagger in my dreams, labor toward home,

but stumble, slip, and like the rain I fall.

Just like the rain, I slip from dreams and fall;

awake, my hand grasps for my sleeping son’s.

---

Alice Ashe is a writer of poetry and prose whose work has appeared in CRAFT, TriQuarterly, Hawai'i Pacific Review, and various other journals. She lives in Atlanta with her partner and son.