by Brendan Sulllivan
I smell winter
in your bloodline,
the thick throttle of crimson
trapping the snow
and the crows’ last laugh
stretching out the wires
taut and high over me.
I smell the cold
in the trees
where your face still hangs
caught like antlers,
weed-boned and blank
in the thin sunshine
of a drowning man.
And your kisses
still reek of snow –
frost chewing through my tongue,
cleaving to your smile,
blemished and beaming
in the surly light
left dying under your thumb
caught in my maelstrom.

0 thoughts on “Maelstrom

  1. It’s actually really hard to write “loss” poems without silencing the room into awkwardness. What you did here was express it all through images and the result is very good. Thanks for the read.

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