Martin Martinsson

I miss you, and it’s not the kind
of miss you where I pulled back
an arrow and held my finger
on your nose
and let go. 

I miss you like a spoon
is too big for my mouth.
Ice cream melts
between the corner of my lips,
closed. I know you’re this close. 

It’s like watering all the plants
in the house. I drew the faucet
a few times, returning to this place
and looking out the window. 

Today I imagined myself waiting
on the front porch of a farm
I’ve never been to
before again. This is when I can see
your wrist rest across your guitar
sitting in the living room.
Its heart beating underneath
its wooden shell. its there
and you’re here. 

Do you ever wonder
what the world eats
for dinner? What prayer
folded hands deliver?
What song are you listening to
when I am listening to my own? 

I don’t want to sound
like a record player;
I’d rather be the old
felled-barn post beams
as you carry them
into your home. 

Karen CygnarowiczComment