Patina by Charles Carr


The sun finds its way
into the room
through the curtain
that never closes completely,
through the shade too small
for the window that hasn’t opened
since the poplars were removed.
A pronounced limp is evident,
a wilt of bloom,
not dust bowl cripple,
not tulips and tiptoes either;
the muted glare is just enough
to highlight a wound
that has long since healed
but itches when the cold traces
its scar like a hieroglyph
or the polished layers
of ancient braille.
It causes no more harm
than a tilted memory,
a dip in the brow toward a frown
that backs away
when the shadow of a hand
straightens the picture,
discards the spent petals
and rearranges the stems
into a thin smile
that moves both of us
a little closer
to what is left of the light.

by Charles Carr

Twitter: @selfrisinmojo

Editor’s Note: The title of this poem is crucial to understanding the plethora of images pointing towards the light at the end of the line.


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