Foggy-breathed and hand in hand with you, I am aware
that as we watch over our sleepy city like a set of mossy gargoyles
the trains below are not bustling, but laboring in the slow and judicious way
of sheep through the slaughter chute, old women in museums,
the trauma in our bloodlines. You are silent and near me, a hermit returned
from the mountain whose thoughts I savor like honey
at the bottom of a tea cup. Your deep voice is a beginning:
the pinball sprung and rolling, and it is an end: drunken ghosts
in an old saloon, shot down, reliving their quarrels unceasingly.
In the middle, we are resting in the bellows of a dusty accordion,
knowing full well the weight of the instrument
around our necks, the smoothness of its button-keys.
* * * * *
Mariesa Bus (she/her) is an editor, reader, writer, and arts enthusiast who lives and works in Tacoma. She graduated from Pacific Lutheran University in 2006 with a major in English (Creative Writing Emphasis) and a minor in Publishing and Printing Arts. She is also a freelance editor, mother, actor, vocalist, matchmaker, and wedding officiant. Find her on LinkedIn to connect.