J A Proudfoot Poems

I took out the photographs from the drawer,
and laid us on the bed.
I had kept them pressed like wild flowers,
and now I sought a key
...

He was three when you left.
How was that goodbye?
You stood outside the door in your chapel clothes
and held your hopes in your suitcase,
...

I cropped a little of us every day.
Tirelessly joined the pieces together and
Slipped them under my pillow.
...

There was fire between them.
It crackled and hissed from her hair,
flashed and flared,
with every subtle fiery glance and folding tress
...

I get the feeling
that you have let me go.
Like a loose button
...