The First of December

By Jesse Curran

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On a street named Sea Cove
there stands a Japanese maple.
It’s called an orange dream. 
 
It halts me. It ceases 
the stride I’ve long used 
to steady the buzzing inside me. 
 
It’s been a full year
since he slipped away
into the soft sleep of a cold night. 
 
I haven’t seen him in any red birds 
on the porch, nor in any blue birds 
on the sill, nor in any doves in the gutter.
 
I haven’t felt his ghost 
fluttering in the breeze
or shifting the curtain.
 
There’s been no glimpse 
in the mirror, the other world 
hovering inside this one. 
 
Instead, just this. 
I’m here. My body 
warm and streaming.
 
Here, the damp gray dawn 
breath surging
cells swirling.
 
The tree is on fire. 
Living 
is so searing.

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Jesse Curran is a mother, poet, essayist, scholar, and teacher who lives in Northport, NY. Her essays and poems have appeared in dozens of literary journals including About Place, After the Art, Allium, Blueline, and Ruminate. She teaches in the Department of English at SUNY Old Westbury. See jesseleecurran.com.

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