The Cresset
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Georgia Ressmeyer

Your absence, like the prodigal’s,
cannot be touched.

Distractions cover loss with
moss and frill, but loss
is bottomless.

Hope does not light my sorrow
from below.

On metal chairs in entryways
I wait for you:

your swinging arms,
your singing voice,
your breath against my cheek.

I wake. I wait for you. I sleep.



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