November 2017
After teaching at a college in South Florida for thirty years, I retired, and my wife and I have traveled around the country, and moved twice in the past two years. Now that we are settled, we are looking forward to exploring our new city and making new friends. Some of my poems have appeared recently in such journals as The Broken Plate, The Comstock Review, Exit 7, The Lake, and Third Wednesday. Amsterdam Press published a chapbook of my poems entitled The Arboriculturist in 2010. Check out my author's page on Facebook or go to my blog at http://www.michaelminassian.com.
COUNTING WORDS
Driving past the Alamo
yesterday, you counted
the people in the square
huddled around the entrance.
The mission shone white
in the glare of the sun,
and I counted the bullet
holes in the façade,
black spots against
the reflected stone:
wounds that would not heal.
Later that night,
you counted the stars
in the night sky
while we searched
for the right words;
I counted heartbeats,
first yours, then mine.
In the distance, a train
whistle blew, counting
the miles between
words and the wind
and then you were gone.
Originally published in Poetry Quarterly, 2016.
COUNTING WORDS
Driving past the Alamo
yesterday, you counted
the people in the square
huddled around the entrance.
The mission shone white
in the glare of the sun,
and I counted the bullet
holes in the façade,
black spots against
the reflected stone:
wounds that would not heal.
Later that night,
you counted the stars
in the night sky
while we searched
for the right words;
I counted heartbeats,
first yours, then mine.
In the distance, a train
whistle blew, counting
the miles between
words and the wind
and then you were gone.
Originally published in Poetry Quarterly, 2016.
© 2017 Michael Minassian
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