You left a note on the refrigerator door;
three words I believe, but quickly faded;
a fast morning, when life decided to
push me out the door, for I was needed
on the icy road where all went to die.
Words scribbled in a hurry on the page
of a time passed before it had a chance
to live, upon which my eyes never set.
A voyage began, to the land of canyons;
the memory was not to yet constructed.
The suit, the tie, raincoat and fancy shoes,
unpacked to make that lasting impression
while near the refinery she wept once more.
A Saturday so lonely, dustpan in hand,
she swiped the pieces of what had broken,
on the floor, near the refrigerator, her heart.
Syllables to bring out the warmth of what
was deep inside, who she wanted to be;
letters collapsed in a jumble of unheard sounds,
she knelt, unable to move, by the white door;
cold, like the snap of her gift, never opened,
flung across the room, ignored, she cried.
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 200 other publications.