by Marie Cloutier
Walking forward, reaching back
through clouds of bone and dust
through ruins and meltdowns in
this landscape of grief and rust,
You're pulled away, snatched backward,
with every step turned to ash
as I hold on, grasp hard, fingers
tight, left only with scratches.
The winds slap me from all sides.
Dead leaves pile at my feet.
Desperate, the confused beauty
where love and eternity meet.
***
Marie Cloutier (she/her) is a writer and poet. Her work has appeared in Bending Genres, Bare Back Magazine, Neologism Poetry Review and elsewhere. She is at work on a memoir. Her website is www.mariecloutier.com.
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