Lisa Russ Spaar

abridged hour

All metaphor is death? Hmmmm.
So the love I bear him

becomes this running scripture
of scarlet creeper, evening’s silver pitcher,

abraded sun, clenched hand diving
from ether to earth in under five?

And while we’re talking shortcuts,
there are mine: dark when I woke.

Fought to move past actions
of mere perception.

Took a pass on jealousy’s old habit.
Drove through fall’s theatrics

only to have my self effaced, a proxy terror,
cutting my mother’s moon-white hair.