P O E T R Y
Parting in Winter
CANDACE HOWZE
T
HERE must be more to this story than a weathered wooden table on a brick patio . More than two glasses of foaming Irish cider and a bagel that neither of us has consumed . I sense someone may be hearing our conversation and reflect on a time he found his likeness rippling through a pond near the Michigan countryside . Someone might frame us in a photo : running our mouths in the background of a posed Kodak , nameless characters of their memory ; stars in our own . This is the instant after the luck has run out that we stop drinking on outdoor patios at wooden tables , when the sun no longer sets at Brightleaf . The sun just goes missing , like it doesn ’ t want us to witness its drowning — this immeasurable sinking of an enormous light .
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