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      August 23, 2019CanvasserCatherine Bresner

      And in the middle of my grief
      a puddle—
      and in the middle of a puddle
      a penny—
      and in the middle of the penny
      a president—
      and in the middle of that president
      a bullet—
      and in the middle of that bullet
      a wound—
      and in the middle of that wound
      another wound—
      and in the middle of our wound
      a night of splinters—
      and in the middle of the night
      a knock—
      and in the middle of a knock
      a go away—no one lives here—
      and in the middle of away
      a clothespin—
      and in the middle of the clothespin
      a wet field
      filled with black-eyed Susans
      a thousand traffic cones
      or, a thousand yellow traffic lights,
      their lights punched out.
      in the middle of the field
      a sinkhole—
      in the middle of the sinkhole
      a question—
      and in the middle of the answer
      a silence—
      and in the middle of that silence.

      from #64 - Summer 2019

      Catherine Bresner

      “This poem came from a guttural place of grief while walking through my neighborhood. Of course, it was November. Everyone I met seemed to be in a state of disillusionment and deep depression. It was a time when sentences just did not suffice. This is why poetry is the most honest vocabulary I know.”

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