Caroline Klocksiem

Unfinished anniversary sonnet

Let the pile of bank notices rest on the table.
Let scrawny wildflowers sleep in their mason jar vase,
and let us obey their hush. Leave your tattered diary,
your observations. Let these episodical entries be.

When we try to shake off the drought, when we cease to sweep
or plant or feed or fret, we simply fray. We tatter, but darling
at least, together. Chest shudders and rough coughs, body-
threads becoming unmade, unfinished edges of a cloth

unweaving to meet at the same certain point. But we are tethered
now, for twelve years together and nine to the panhandle, and just as many
to a silly, un-talked-about wish. The only thing is to pick up the fiddle,
even though my hands are grit-worn and ragged. Even though I don’t
recall your favorite old tunes, I’ll make anything up. If you’ll let me
pluck for you some song from what strings still hold on.

 

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