A POEM MADE UP OF WORDS THAT GO THROUGH MY MIND ON AN ALMOST DAILY BASIS NOW THAT HE’S GONE
by Theresa Williams
That’s what the world is—wildness and madness, sometimes ashes, sometimes pearls. Keep what’s dear in a little magic box. Open it once in a while. Hear the cry from the heart that remembers.
Remembers what’s in the letters, descriptions of this or that time, like when the two of you were in the dark winter wood and kissed while standing beside the piled-up stones and the old dead tree. What a curious adventure. What a heart-break in the end.
The end, say it. For many years after that kiss you were his wife, a word that means nothing now. Might as well say you were his shadow, his library, his house. The mere fact you met at all was lucky, “strange and unlikely” the two of you used to say to each other. The future was a far-off country, promised in gestures, like his hand on your hair. But there is no such place. There never was.
Theresa Williams's work often focuses on dealing with the trauma that accompanies death and loss. She's the author of The Secret of Hurricanes (2002), a finalist for the Paterson Fiction Prize, and many stories and poems in The Chattahoochee Review, Gargoyle, Hunger Mountain, The Sun and other magazines. Right now, she's working on a graphic novel called The Wanderers. Excerpts from The Wanderers can be seen here: https://theoddducks.wordpress.com/ Theresa received her MFA in Fiction writing from Bowling Green State University in 1989 and presently teaches literature, creative writing, and graphic novel workshops there. She has also taught workshops at Esalen in Big Sur.