By A.J. Huffman
lingers in corners of eyes, too
easily lost in a blink or breath of ceiling fan.
I hold mine, force muscles to feign memories
of frozen simulation, make a wish, and wait
for it or me to fall.
Dialogue of Potential Poetics
I had a dream you wrote eight poems,
“Today?” you asked.
No, last night, I replied.
You laughed. “I meant when
did I write them.”
Oh, then yes. Today.
“Were they good?”
Don’t know. Didn’t read ‘em. Woke up.
“Then how do you know they were
You sent me an email.
“Ya, I know. Yesterday morning.”
No, in my dream. That’s how I knew.
“How you knew what?”
That you wrote eight poems today.
“But I haven’t.”
“How do you know?”
Because of the dream.
“The dream of the poems that weren’t there?”
Exactly! And now you have your first
Yes. “The Dream of the Poems that Weren’t
There” sounds like a title to me.
“Damn, you’re right.”
And you’re writing
eight. So get started!
a tail wagging in welcome. Two
paws and a nose pressed against
pane, anxiously watching for your return.
A slobbered kiss, a lap full
of shed fur, and a smile has added another
line or two to your face.
an over-stuffed couch, permanently indented
on one end. Fading shade of favored color,
worn thin where arm and book both rest,
draped across contrasting pillow, made
by friend’s hand to match tones in family’s
painting, handed down.
end tables and shelves full of memories. Frames
filled with parties and trips, grandma’s vase
now holding shells from this year’s vacation.
The ashtray your daughter made her first
year at summer camp.
warmth. A long-searched-for quilt to curl inside
on winters’ eves. A tattered pair of fuzzy slippers
with soles that still squeak on hard-wood floors.
A fireplace, always with enough logs to blaze
away the coldest of nights.