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Avery Carle writes at 2 AM in Summit, New Jersey, and has previously been published in Red Eft Review. Missing YouAnd i write and i write and i write and i write. There is no relief, Only the rev of an engine, Rumbling, As it hugs the winding road, or the hum of the microwave Spurring to life I am growing. Maybe. Sometimes i think I am capturing the ways your fingles dangled over the piano keys, With only the softest touch igniting a symphony Or The way Your hair curled up to cradle your neck like a new born baby. But there are no words, no metaphors that cannot describe your smile, And maybe that is a description in itself. Paralegal The doors open at 8:30 AM, the phones start buzzing at 8:31. a soothing voice speaks into the phone, coating the line in slippery oil. the words are choppy, broken English. mom dead. sister are upset. doctor no tell them until too late. I am in the practice of spreading hope. I don’t tell her that the law firm is drowning in product liability cases, Or that Mark is in an angry mood today, And that jurors turn their noses To those who aren’t proudly American
We are a medical malpractice firm That has reduced death to an economical assessment. Darling, all the grief in the world won’t be enough I won’t tell you that the doctor is not the enemy, Cancer is, Because I have seen far too many people stumble in and out of 46 Beechwood Street looking for someone to blame. Her death was not preventable, but your misery is, so I will sit down, Open a document, and write down your contact information. I am in the practice of spreading hope. Jupiter’s SymphonySpeak
said the rain and the clouds rumbled. life does not wait for your voice to develop it slams into you, crashing, dragging the words from your extended rib cage. silence is a choice screamed the thunder. there is no way to delay the future or avoid or hide or prolong the grief the memories will come. lightning strikes, blinding the sky. Release the sorrow occluding your vision.
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