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NATHAN KADE

  

 
 
 
prelude to love lost

 

Morning light streams through the window.

Standing next to the door, you smile—

The lines and dimples, sun-made freckles

and bright eyes so intent while

you study yourself in the mirror.

Your small hands smooth soft skin

—the slope of your shoulders—

and come to rest on your hips.

A breeze at the window stirs the chimes,

spinning reflections on your new-found belly

curving outward, cradled in your arms. 

 

 

 

leaving

 

Were these stairs ever so quiet? 

Even now they seem to groan

under the weight of the clouds.

They’ve been threatening to rain

for weeks, years, months and now,

quiet, solemn dreadnaughts. 

Why  won’t it rain, just rain? 

The dust is suffocating, it clings to you

and sucks the water from your pores and you hated it. 

The curtains in the window would never stay clean. 

You used to sing in the house,

just before I came home, I’d stand in the drive listening, until

you heard me on those damn stairs.  Just for a while, that

was all, now I’m leaving…the house and the empty yard. 

Your picture was the only thing you left behind.

The dresser with its drawers hanging out told me enough.