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.


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

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