I didn't shed a tear until
yesterday.  Your memory
pulled me back
years of
the flood of
the days and nights,
the children, rogue
warriors in our battles
their  children confused
by the confessions,
the chest pounds
of sorrow.

Where you remain
under the guise
of husband.


Caroline Shank
July 10, 2022

It's a bad **** day here in
Texas.
The winds are hot and it's
starting to rain.  

I cant find my coat.  It got
lost at your funeral.  Now
my dry cheeks are wet
and i cant see where to go
The cracks in my face
are artificial.

The frogs are jumping after
phantom bugs, drugged
on the arid silence

I dont know how to do this.
Alone is an art form. No one
said it was Easy.  Willie's song
playing in my mind like a
jumping blue frog in the desert
that has come inside

I crossed the line too late.
All of your self is in the
pillow i no longer use.

I think i will read through
the afternoon. I can always
Cry in bed.

Tomorrow is another anniversary.

Caroline Shank
1.9.2022

Southern Days


I almost called you the other day
to remind you I have a birthday
soon and yours is near too.   I
knew you'd be busy and I put
aside my knitting to think about you.

Last year was the trip to Savannah.
I showed you pictures.  Jim died
before we could go back.  I wanted
to include you in my reminiscences.

Tomorrow it is supposed to rain.
I don't do anything on rainy days.
I sit by the window with my tea.
Remember I told you about my
cat. She stays close when she
senses I am looking for you.

I know Jim said you would come
when the sky was gray and I was
lost.  He thought I was lost a lot.
He would ask and there was
never a reply.  He was not waiting
to hear me.

He didn't know that the days of
a fine drizzle were my favorite
days. I watch to see if you are
walking toward me. Your tan, hands

Beautify.. My life with your strong
fingers. Your red hair ubiquity
of the love you left me when
I said no to you Un covered
you said goodbye and then
I died.

The cat knows and she kneads
my shirt.  I stroke her and
call your southern name out
Loud to the mirror of remembering.



Caroline Shank
June 19, 2022


Caroline Shank

I try for a gentle sound, to
say your name in quiet tones,
so like a bird having given
birth in a nest might not cry,
but would settle down to an
afternoon of birdsong, her
charge warm and waiting
for the yolk of future singing
be without requests having
no knowledge of choices.

Caroline Shank
June 16, 2022

I cannot get to you.  You
are like Jerusalem, a
misguided city. Your name is exposed
to the sun while i call to you in the
silence of the volcanic pre-dawn.
You have slides of affectation.
A pilgrim might mistake
you for the safety of a handhold
hammered in the sand.

Other
travelers knew the peril of
your affection.

You don't  reply. So cold the
monument, so silent
the wall of your response.

This is all I know
and so do you that the
messages of the world fall
like the snow on the ground
white with shadows. Mute
replicas of shared emotion.

Drink to us the sour
vinegar of the sponge.

Caroline Shank
June 16, 2022

Imaginings

Midsummer.

My thoughts are
charged by
familiar memories.

It's been almost 50 years.
You and the heat
and the music.  A joint
between us and the
puppy running around.

I believed in you.
We danced in the
room above the bar.  
Mrs. Jones. The wick lit.
Tomorrow was a day
away.  

The blue smells of smoke.  
The beach.  The soft sand.
The striped umbrella.
Our music played for
a thousand nights.

Jeans and leather.
Together.

*

I prayed for hours.
In my chair, in the
sunlight.

"Love him my love" I repeated
for so long that July Sunday.

We belonged to a rift in time.
I excavated in the sand and found
you.

We were young then. The
sound of your bike is in
my sleep.

I never knew
it could hurt
so much.

You never waved

goodbye.




Caroline Shank
June 15, 2022

How long before you noticed
     I was absent?
Would you boot up expecting
     me to have my sunshine
     waiting like someone
     breathing in the air of your
     expensive cologne, alone?

That is the important part.  Would
     you pay no mind to the
     unspoken fragility of my delay?
Can you see me through the glare
     of my absence?

My hands, so still, make no move
to flex, the prelude movement, to
lightly brush the keys which spell
your name. The button I do not press to
start the bubble of exuberance, tingling. .
My chest contracts deeply and i
breath your name in a ritual obeisance
you might call a whisper.  I land
on the keys rubbed too shiny from use,
as a supplicant might continually rub
the Chalice.

I exaggerate, here,  the thought that
you would notice the omission
of a stain on the white cloth of my
restlessness.  I bow to yesterday.
Today waits.  Unexplain my
heart, call me by my name.
    

Caroline Shank