a collection of frost

 

you decide to leave it all,
mostly because the bad
outweighs the good and so

your sons watch you drive
away though you will return
the next day and the day

after that but that doesn’t matter

that doesn’t matter and you
don’t seem to mind leaving
this image, you

with your suitcase and a handful
of books, as if to say
the books mean more than love

though it is hard to explain
that love is air and books
are water and so you drive

away you don’t seem to mind
the hole you’ve left behind,
a hole too big for a needle

and thread yet a hole
not the size of a grave
the days turn to months

and the hole remains
like the scab on a wound
you do your best to fill

the hole, you fill it with gestures
promises of a utopian someday,
gestures like a quick messing

of your sons’ still soft
and placid hair it’s all we know

how to do

this is how we do it

this is how we leave our mark

this is how the past is set on the mantle

this is how we leave the past all but frozen shut