By Laine Derr
He’s forgotten, I hear
them whisper, what
he’s learned or loved.
I imagine I found
under a summer stone
our last embrace, eyes
beginning to see what
we all will know, rain
just beyond the rise,
I hum of evening air.
I imagine I kissed
a flower because
it kissed me back,
pollen touching
the tip of my tongue
buzzing, We will be –
Strangers turning to go.
Laine Derr holds an MFA from Northern Arizona University and has published interviews with Carl Phillips, Ross Gay, Ted Kooser, and Robert Pinsky. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming from Antithesis, ZYZZYVA, Portland Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere.