The Magic Hour
"World without end/ remember me.”
The stones you leave on loved ones’ graves
Are always smooth and round
Like the ones you’d skip on the water
Are you supposed to leave stones there? Or did I just ascribe meaning to habit?
I’m always doing that,
Always feeling for just the perfect flat skipper no matter how far I am from any seas or lakes, how far into the desert I’ve gotten
Old photo albums, used to be how you remembered things
You used to flip through the arranged pages, stare at the frames of all the days someone chose to rescue
The raindrops caught brightly on your long hair years ago, now cropped short like a military man
If I still did things the way they used to, that’s what I’d choose to keep
No old photographs for us though, we’re too young for that anachronism
But we’re getting there,
What will it be like?
When we’re the junked cars in the fields, windows smashed by neighborhood kids armed with bricks and bats
When we’re the small animals, peering out from such dark spaces at the very edge of Autumn’s sightline
When we’re frost on the prairie grass in the storm-lit summer of your memory, pale and golden
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry including 'Maps To The Vanishing' which is coming out in 2022 from Finishing Line Press. He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.