Poet of the Week: Carmen Gillespie
the blue black wet of wood
Today’s rain is blue, a blue of skeletons and the underside of ashes.
My footsteps pool in azure and the sea seeps through
in waves that remember the determined descent
of drowning slaves. The slog of night mosses my fingers
as if remembering the ribs of trees and, somewhere,
a song repeats in threes calling little girls back home
from wherever obsidian away they may have roamed.
But the distance outlines an edge where a house may have stood
And, oh, but the night and the blue black wet of wood.