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๐—˜๐—ฎ๐—ฟ๐—น๐—ถ๐—ฒ๐—ฟ ๐—ง๐—ต๐—ถ๐˜€ ๐— ๐—ผ๐—ฟ๐—ป๐—ถ๐—ป๐—ด ๐—ข๐—ป ๐˜๐—ต๐—ฒ ๐—•๐—ฟ๐—ถ๐—ฑ๐—ด๐—ฒ ๐—ถ๐—ป ๐—ฅ๐—ผ๐˜๐—ต๐—ฒ๐—ป๐—ฏ๐˜‚๐—ฟ๐—ด

๐˜ฃ๐˜บ ๐˜‹๐˜ฆ๐˜ฃ๐˜ฐ๐˜ณ๐˜ข๐˜ฉ ๐˜›๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฎ๐˜ข๐˜ด



If any one of you is traveling

possibly in Paris, Rome or Rothenburg,

and glimpses someone from your past

who is deceased, just stop


and think about the possibility

that he, or she, or they or I may really be there,

now, for you, revisiting this momentary intersection

of the present and the past.


Possibly ephemeral, bright swatches

of recycled molecules pass time orbiting

your consciousness, elliptically, closer

now and then. What ever stays here

after we have shed our disappointing bodies

by the law of physics has to keep on moving,


Strange as it may seem, molecular detritus

of past composites do not require gravity

or speed or visual displays, to travel

out of nowhere into somewhere,


any more than concepts, hanging in a distant nebula

where other dormant visions and desires ripen,

need a catalyst to reinvent themselves. They quicken

when your muse chooses to bring them,


images or thoughts, unspoken, barely visible,

for you to organize with intuitionโ€™s memory.

Imagination, fecal stardust, drawn to the familiar,

gravitates, attuned for bonding and becoming Something.


Fully charged, time travel drives them here, from there.

Some simple rearranging, re-collected in your mind,

speaks to your page or to a printer, or a cloud.

With sufficient space, and time, and gravity,

such words will find their way into the right hands.


On the other hand, too bent on making meaning,

we can be reduced to foraging for words refurbished.

What we want to call our own new knowledge

claims a darker gravity, a counter force


that drives us blindly to collect things:

butterflies, or bits, or anything that fits

a pattern, a prediction, or our purpose,

Even sacred soil, inside a vacuum,


turns to ordinary dust, obscures all matter.

We all know the Muse abhors a vacuum.

We escape the mundane, traveling, in mind or body.

Unfamiliarity revives and freshens up the senses.


But for just an instant, in a foreign country

you are certain itโ€™s your dearest friend who leans

against the railing of this bridge,

though you are just as certain she died years ago.


But there she is, unchanged, expecting you.

My grandchildren insist that time is space,

and space is gravity, and what exists will always be,

so itโ€™s not so far-fetched to entertain a presence.


All the worldโ€™s syllables are constantly recycled.

Every drink of water has been drunk before.

Often we have proven things we know to be untrue.

Maybe death is time spent waiting at the airport.


In the mirror, I see my fatherโ€™s face infusing mine.

I am lost until I stop to breathe the stillness of his voice.

Then is when beloveds reappear, as she did

earlier this morning, on the bridge, in Rothenburg.





Deborah Thomas lives in Cape Meares, Oregon, and has been writing poetry since she learned how to read and write. Her work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, The Seneca Review, The Friendly Street Poetry Reader, Northwest Review, Red Sky, Halfway Down the Stairs, and Prometheus Dreaming. She has given invited readings at The University of Aukland, The University of Rochester Plutzik Poetry Series, Writerโ€™s Week in Adelaide, SA. After winning a love poem contest on "A Prairie Home Companion", she was interviewed by host, Garrison Keillor, and read her โ€œAnniversary Poemโ€ on the air. She has self published a book of poetry for friends and family, The Light in the Refrigerator, and is working on a novel about how a village of 65 retired residents deal with an imminent earthquake and tsunami off the Oregon Coast. She writes what she most wants to tell her children, but not at the dinner table.


Speculative fiction & POETRY ZINE
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