The Departure

By Ian J. Williamson

I saw you sleeping on the couch
Your shining eyes shuttered.

On your lips, a smear of
Sweet white wine
A stain too
On your mother’s serviettes
She saved for special occasions.

Your arm was draped over the middle cushion
Your mouth hung open
Like a deceased fish.

The body you had existed in
Lay there like a collapsed
Tent, or maybe
A crumpled paper airplane
You had stopped flying in.

Meanwhile you, you—
No longer encased in synapses
Or curbed by chemicals,
Returned as breath
To the mouth of God.

“I write because I love making particular images.” – the poet

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