This poem originally appeared in Tablet. Thank you to the kind editors over there.
Keepsake
The friend who betrayed
me, I hold no malice
toward him, remembering when
we drove the backroads
of Western Massachusetts,
and wild turkeys, barely lit by what red
remained of a sunset, crossed the road
and we stopped to let them pass.
We stopped talking, after hours
of talk, and watched those ghosts,
those turkey-shaped shadows,
slowly cross a narrow road
into woods where it was already night.
it's nice when we can keep something from a relationship that has hurt us instead of throwing it all out. nice reminder that these moments make up our souls and stand alone, separate from the hurt.
You are my favorite poet!