I can count out my life in three or seven cities, looking down the various alleys of remembering. I try to keep myself private since tears already leak from my left eye all the time. in the right world there is no trace of us the way we were. I'm still waiting for a visit from my grandfather, the detective who died digging a hole with no fear of his bad heart. There is his good deed, magnifying cracks in the glass until they split. I see him drive out of Chicago while the grass is green but the trees aren't. Their limbs hold corners of winter and the unfolding wings of a heron against the light and my own wet eyes in September. The sky falls grey and man's folly, or whatever you call it, imagination loses itself in the fields along the road but always returns. Across his shoulders this and the name of the world. Back in the alley where the sun went I'll take it, I will, I'll pick up the call and smile my way through it. This becomes the limit of what we say about the place, and if you don't mind, I'm closing my left eye now.
Elizabeth Walztoni’s poetry appears or is forthcoming in Black Stone/White Stone, New Note Poetry, sunthia magazine, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She is a fiction reader for Sepia Quarterly and a 2020 Nature in Words Fellow at Pierce Cedar Creek Institute. Find her on Twitter @EWalztoni.