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Karl Meade: Christmas break

September 16, 2022 by PBQ Leave a Comment

The earth heaves, the ice cleaves. Erosion
cuts the heart from every stone, while every night

I watch you drive your family past a starving glacier, turn
from a truck laden with salt. You head off

the head on, take the bumper to the heart, leave
your family straining your lungs’ last

words from the floor of the minivan.
I’m on the floor beneath my desk, straining

to plug in the phone that I will blame for years: why
did I plug it in? Every night

I watch the driver’s stoned eyes, petrified as your broken
daughters in the back. Every night

I piece you all back together: brake, I say, turn
over and over while the glacier leaves

its terminal moraine. I gather the stones,
offer them to the moon, last witness

to your last turn. I turn
to your wife, try to face her head on

with what the earth knows:
core to crust, mouth to lung

the rupture comes, the rupture
stays. Every Christmas

she wakes to the words
brake, turn.

Filed Under: Issue 103, Poetry, Poetry 103 Tagged With: Karl Meade

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