Cold seeping into bones through evening chill,
sitting too long after the sun had set
on concrete benches made for afternoon,
one thing rose up in arid clarity:
What he had inexpressibly esteemed,
he’d never made the least attempt to hold—
to make it fast by giving it its name
or sounding out its underwater depth.
It’s just the way a dropped carton of eggs
holds all its lost potential on display,
the whites like water, unfulfilled, beyond
repair, the supple yolks a loud reproach
of ruination by his negligence.
A moment’s unavailing stare before
the mess is scraped away will be the only
eulogy to all that lived both safe
and veiled within the broken, teeth-bright shells.
by Tara Seguin
Original bio from the Spring 2015 edition:
Tara Seguin works hard to disappoint expectations.
This poem first ran in the Spring 2015 edition of Grub Street Grackle. It appears here online for the first time.
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