
From the desk of
FRANCES-MARIE COKE
From the desk of
FRANCES-MARIE COKE
by Frances-Marie Coke
In the words of
FRANCES-MARIE COKE
All year the drought: the caked soil cracked
like brittle bones unearthed by starving dogs.
And on the screen sits this Nothingness
That’s lived between my ribs too long,
for no words have been made to speak the things
that haunt me on the edges of the night.
Across the room, you fade into that haze
that settled on the window pane one day,
Long after rose-pink chiffon curtains faded
and the melodies we played for one another
spun unnoticed to their end, the blunt needle
groaning on the record no one rose to change.
I wonder who you are: your face a shadow
of the face I loved so long ago,
when roses lasted longer than a day,
and rivers flowed where now the city garbage
clogs our way; when children’s laughter
rang across the pages we were sketching
of tomorrow; when church bells pealed
to celebrate the living, not the dead.
I watch you move your stranger’s feet
across a carpet worn with other journeys
to this place of broken figurines and candlesticks—
their leafy patterns buried in the dust.
I watch you close the door, a metal bar
across its face to keep out murky night
where shadows haunt a crumbling wall,
its patterns in a heap of restless pebbles
skidding round the path.
And outside, the city settles for a time, before the sirens blast.
And in this silent place of fading light,
we stare into our empty coffee mugs—and wait.
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