Process by Robert Ford

Although she has now left, she has not completely disappeared.

Her name is a word, living on in the dictionary, with a definition.

It appears in the mundane conversations anyone could have,

and he hears it being used unwittingly, haphazardly, cheaply.

At least the smell of her cannot persist in the same way.

The molecules that carry it will dissipate, and find themselves

diminished, maybe even recycled. But still he wonders whether

laundering her clothes and then taking them to the thrift shop

in plastic sacks will help the process – if this is what it is –

or simply close a door that cannot then ever be re-opened.

What lingers on the other side will never vanish, just become

inaccessible. Photographs are more predictable. They can be

stowed away in albums or boxes, and looked at again from

time to time, or not. One or the other will probably help somehow,

and on certain days he may even know which of them it is.

Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland. His poetry has appeared in both print and online publications in the UK and US, including Picaroon Poetry, The Lake, Liminality and San Pedro River Review. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/.

4 a.m. by Robert Ford

Finally, we fell away and into fractious sleep,

to the sound of rain, gentle as the ebbing

of each dark layer in a long, splintered night.

The heart’s gutters choke with stripped leaves,

damming the torrent of tired, uneasy words.

Another day awaits with nothing free, nothing

resolved, but your familiar breath across my ear

is like the first footsteps taken inside a new temple,

breaking the seal on an overwhelming peace.

Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland, and writes poetry, short stories and non-fiction. His poetry has appeared previously in print and online publications in the UK and US, including Clear Poetry, Dream Catcher, Firewords, Melancholy Hyperbole and Wildflower Muse. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com/