Lisa Ludden lives, writes and teaches in Northern California. A finalist for the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Awards, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Indianola Review, MockingHeart Review, The Stillwater Review and elsewhere. She directs the New Works Writing Project, where students work to develop ten-minute plays that are then staged for an audience.
I don't have to remind you about the dead, the stifling,
the noise, walking through the house.
I pretend objects are enough. A sweater,
with its long sleeves. Sometimes it is, that sweater.
More often, it's an opening, a ditch
without a digger, lined with molten leaves.
That ribbon on your coat. I didn't know
then as it was. Just what is left — remaindered
with composure fading, because
you are sleeping and I have found your
bustled warmth. I'm looking at languages
for a word that is between care for and love.
To hold love. As a noun. To begin this sleep
into wakening, wrap arms. My adult learning curve.
"Remaindered" is a poem I began writing 10 years ago as I was examining the relationship between familial love and loss, from an outside perspective, all while I was falling in love. This is what emerged.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.