by A.R. Francis

Three seasons

Three seasons have passed
Since I knew you
Since I knew the way your scarf
Fell across your shoulder
Or the way you sipped your tea
From that chipped cup
On Spring Street

And one day we’ll pass
In a fluorescent hallway
Or at the funeral of a boy we knew
And I’ll ask
How are you

And we’ll think of the seasons
How silently they pass
How simply we’ve grown old

One morning

From the lead black iris
morning lures
a loner, lover.

Your father rings again.

The Sunday morning subway
a cry like baby’s breath
on fragile flesh.

I could die here
a scar across

the sweet of your neck

About the Author:

A.R. Francis

A.R. Francis was born in Baltimore, Maryland and currently lives in New York City. His previous work has appeared in the Columbia Journal, Black Heart Magazine, Glassworks, and Dovetail.