All Saints Day
by Lisa Bellamy
Today they jostle among us until sundown,
listen to our chatter, nudge each other, read the news
over our shoulders; they window-shop,
zoom through revolving doors, sniff new perfumes,
slip into silks, swanky dresses, and at noon on Third Avenue,
walking to Hale and Hearty, I smell my mother’s
cigarette smoke. Hey! You. Not so fast, I say.
Did you love me? Did I walk into a room and I was
the one person you wanted to see? The old question.
A great cloud of witnesses holds its breath,
waits for her answer—and, as if she were a hurricane
and I a tree, she blows through me: a wordless storm of regret.
Copyright © 2016 by Lisa Bellamy