Poetry by Ginnie Gavrin

At Death

I will be

unwound

from all my failures

Turned into a filament

of light

My fear of distractedness

dispersed

to mingle

with the sounds of traffic

in some city

where I have never

been

The memory

of the day

I stood staring

too long

at the grocery shelves

So long

my son

wandered

away from me

That sin

will be absorbed

into rain

a spattering

against a stranger’s windshield

My frantic search

His tears

A lifetime of absolution

refined

to nothing

Even the weeks

I was sure

there was still time

for one more visit

before

my father died

Or the hour my mother

whispered

her last word

into empty

dark air

The day I gauged

that skid wrong

and slid blind

into whirling snow.

Spit of rage

at my own

fragility

Spun off

like the float

of milkweed.

Benign soft wind

bearing

the mercy

we all long for

Forgiveness

rendered mute

losing

its necessity

All density

released

from its meaning

Even my name

will be set loose

Two silent syllables.

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Vespers: Evening

...dusk or twilight is considered to be a ‘thin place’ where the veil between heaven and earth is lifted

––Christine Valters Paintner

Sunlight loses heat

lavender chill

at the horizon

Branches tangle

in the dimming gold.

Feverish. The thin place

where nourishment

gathers as we slice

hard carrots on the wooden

board. Onions sting

the eyes. Herbs

loosen their fragrance

beneath the knife.

The stew a murk

Water

becoming air

steam rising above

the ring of blue flame.

Each step lifts

the veil between

hunger and quelling

where appetite receives

its antidote

forecast in fragrance

the plate on the table

as the candle

comes to life

and the windows lose

the sky

succumb

to black.

The soup pours

from the ladle

to the bowl, each ingredient

now a blend

The morning’s plans

the afternoon’s labor

recede, turn larger

than the sum

we turn loose as the past.

A release of breath

over the spoon

Sip. Taste.

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Ginnie Goulet Gavrin worked as a massage therapist for over twenty-five years. She teaches meditation and writing workshops at the Monadnock Mindfulness Practice Center in Keene, New Hampshire. Her poetry has appeared in The Literary Review, The Worcester Review, THEMA, Primavera, Slipstream, The Greensboro Review. She is currently working on a novel which explores returning to mundane life after a mystical experience that starts at the brink of death.

Abby Michelini