by Susan Mcclellan

Today begins a week of poetry at The Sunlight Press.

She doesn’t know why she stayed

she doesn’t know why she stayed
the night had teeth and called her name
she listened to clocks bruise the dark
and waited for a sound to choose her
there were maps folded inside her ribs
but none agreed on north
she carried silence like a cup of water
careful not to spill the future
she knew the bridge was breaking,
the house was falling,
the road was narrowing to nothing
still, her feet rehearsed the pause
still, her hands believed in railings
a sparrow argued with the window
about the meaning of escape
she thought of her mother’s breath
counting storms the way others count sheep
she thought of laughter,
brittle as ice cracking just before it holds
courage arrived late, out of breath
saying sorry for the delay
she forgave it, almost
a match flared inside her pocket
warmth pretending to be light
the future knocked, then pretended it hadn’t
she learned the grammar of thresholds
how maybe can bruise into yes
how no can bloom like rust
dawn loosened its blue stitches
the city blinked, unashamed
she felt the hinge of her spine
deciding which way to swing
hope was not a promise
it was a habit, badly kept
she stayed long enough to name the fear
and found it smaller when spoken
the ground steadied, briefly
enough for one true step
she took it without applause
without a map, without a net
the past tugged her sleeve
the present held her gaze
she let the wind finish her sentence
and trusted the pause to listen
somewhere, a door forgot to lock
somewhere, a road remembered her feet
she doesn’t know why she stayed
but she knows why she left

***

When you called

when you called
the phone warmed like a held stone
your breath crossed the distance first
carrying weather from your side of town
you talked of faces on clouds,
of sounds in the wind,
of glitter in the rain
as if the world was trying to speak through you
I listened for the pauses between your words
where doubt hid its shoes
the kettle clicked itself into silence
even the clock leaned closer
you said time felt thinner lately
like ice learning to forgive the sun
I said nothing,
which meant everything
you laughed, a small bridge of sound
I crossed it barefoot
memory rearranged the furniture
so the past could sit with us
you asked if leaving ever ends
I watched dust answer for me
each particle a yes and no
the line crackled, faithful and flawed
holding us just enough
to remember how closeness works
outside, rain practiced being light
inside, my chest practiced being brave
when the call ended,
it kept ringing in ordinary things
like air, like after, like hope

About the photographer: Susan Mcclellan enjoys writing and photography. She has a bachelor’s degree in Communications Media and a master’s degree in Library Science. She has been a librarian for over 20 years and has written book reviews for School Library Journal and the Public Libraries blog.