Luckily, the night ends with a calm over Valparaíso. Neruda’s chair a cloud, they tell themselves. A boat muffles the sound of sleep. An old woman sighs. From her fullness or freedom. From tears beading the sky. He might have fled to Mexico before dying. Children play & bend their bodies in these streets. Until they scatter like stars upon the mountains, their chatter & rattle, like so many questions from the withered flowers around the corner.
Cynthia Bargar is Associate Poetry editor at Pangyrus. Her poems have appeared in many journals, most recently Rogue Agent, Book of Matches, Driftwood Press, and in the book, Our Provincetown: Intimate Portraits by Barbara E. Cohen (Provincetown Arts Press, 2021). Her first poetry collection, Sleeping in the Dead Girl’s Room, came out from Lily Poetry Review Books in January, 2022. Cynthia lives with her partner, cartoonist Nick Thorkelson, in Provincetown, Massachusetts.
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I notice how quiet this poem is this morning. How distinctly different the images/diction. :)