Ten Years Later

by Erin Kirsh

Here I thought I saw you,

an intrepid reflection in swollen

puddles, visible

like the leaves of the oaks rippling

in shallow water luminescent

with oil. I am reminded

of walking through plashes,

wetting socks, peering down hard

enough to complete the illusion

of walking through sky. I do not

feel that wonder when I

catch your specter staring.

Instead,

memories of laying unfriendly stones

on your forever patch of earth.

My feet were wet then, too, and my face

and borrowed Dead Kennedys shirt.

Your apparition has startled me

often this decade, unaged, the youth of you

striking.

I have moved my fingers to the cuts

of crow’s feet trailing my temples.

I do not cover my chest or mouth,

I touch my aging. The horror of it, and you

without the option.

Erin Kirsh is a writer and performer living in Vancouver. Her work has appeared in Arc Poetry Magazine, Strange Days Books, The Malahat Review, PULP, and Geist. Erin was the Managing Director of Verses Festival of Words in 2016.
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