Melancholy Hyperbole

Poetry about longing.

Gone

She’s in love with the boy
and even if they have to run away
she’s gonna marry that boy someday.

— Trisha Yearwood
 
 
I change the word to girl
and sing you that country song—
you at the kitchen sink,
me heading out for work.
 
You wipe soap on your apron,
hold my face in your hands
to say goodbye.
 
But when I come home, no smells
come floating from the stove,
no music from the stereo.
 
It takes a moment to notice
the half-empty coat rack,
a moment longer to take it in.
 
And then I see your green goose
gone from above the kitchen door,
one apron on the hallway hook.
 
I find your note in the dining room,
then crawl upstairs to bed.
 
Across the hall, where you hung
your paintings, the walls are a picked
sunburn, all patchy and raw.
 
The scratches on the wooden floor
are the only sign of your tall oak dresser.
 
 
Margaret DMargaret DeRitter is a freelance writer and editor living in Kalamazoo, Michigan, with her dog, Murray. She worked as a full-time journalist for 30 years. Her poetry has appeared in Scarlet Literary Magazine and Encore Magazine.
 
 

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Categories: LGBTQ+, Poetry, Themed

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

2 replies

  1. “Across the hall, where you hung
    your paintings, the walls are a picked
    sunburn, all patchy and raw.”

    I especially love this bit. Such a great, painful metaphor.

  2. The scratches on the floor are painfully good, too!

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