Maybe it’s the concrete
rising against the horizon,
damp clouds smudging the sky,
or the absence of starry
jasmine, petals opening
along a footpath.
Maybe it’s countless
hands creased with loss,
the woman in her wheelchair
holding a cup of rain saying,
God Bless You
God Bless You
the man hooded in grey
on Market Street slumped
against a lamppost, his cardboard
sign reading, “HUNGRY.”
Or maybe it’s the cars
crimped in rows,
the pigeon flapping
a torn wing in the gutter.
I don’t know why, but
all the people are crying—
standing on the corner,
waiting to buy a coffee,
vendors selling plastic trinkets,
women offering pamphlets of prayers.
Everywhere,
skin shimmering with grief.
You know how the lips lose
the shape of joy,
how the ashen sky forgets
to clear to blue.
–
January Pearson lives in Southern California with her husband and two daughters. She teaches in the English department at Purdue Global University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Notre Dame Review, Atlanta Review, Valparaiso Literary Review, Third Wednesday, Journal of American Poetry, and The Cape Rock Review.