August, Paris

by Susan Tepper
 

Across the café table a man is drowning,
my beloved, here I met, so help me.
Water had risen to the tops of his eyes,
not a miracle or sacrifice
nor even simple tears
but the springs of who he was,
before he formed,
who he would become,
the eventual suffering into later life.
It ripped me.  In such a way
as could not be explained or rationalized.
I saw the light would drown him.
Grey over the coming winter into spring.
I sat perfectly still, aging in a hotel mirror.


* * * * *

"August, Paris" was first published in Blue Fifth Review and is part of Susan Tepper's collection Confess (Červená Barva Press, 2020).

Susan Tepper is a twenty year writer who works in all genres, and the author of ten published books of fiction and poetry. Her new play "The Crooked Heart" concerns artist Jackson Pollock in his later years and is forthcoming. www.susantepper.com