by Edward Lineberry
Bernard takes us to the wrong hotel
the one without the homeless camp
the one beyond pedestrian reach,
but he resets with aplomb
and finds Little Italy, our Christmas
morning home, the slim canyons
beside the highway rendered chaste,
free again of tents and their human
cargo. No marine layer, no clouds:
the San Diego sun scales the mesa,
a blind Dahlia nudging watchfulness.
And when I close my eyes, I see hers,
hazily swim, fish in a pool, gazing
up and into a sky of incoherence
searching for a light I once believed
that I would never see again.
Edward Lineberry is a writer living in Atlanta. His poetry, fiction,
and criticism has appeared in the Magnolia Review, Third Street
Writers, and elsewhere. He is a regular contributor to Rivanna Review.
January House Literary Journal 
Leave a comment