These long years after,
I occasionally imagine
he'll stop by in dress whites,
the scent of Hawaii upon him.
For a moment he'll love me
the way he did in his letters
from Vietnam.

In my dream I wait for him,
plump the pillows, clear 
the room of discarded clothes..
A funeral is being held
in the courtyard.
Did the cancer take him
before his arrival or
is it the burial of any remaining
post-marital connections?

My face is wet.
Tears were all shed
and dried earlier.

What well do they flow from now?

Fear takes hold of my shoulders
and shakes me. The earth spins.
Birds fly backwards into a timeless sky.

Pris Campbell


Published in Guerilla Pamphlets
December 2011

(the link is to a PDF file. My poem is on page 21)

Guerilla Pamphlets is closing its doors as of the summer issue 2012,so I don't know how long that link will be good after that.

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