Oh, yes, we want him to be

comfortable, they say, yet no one

comes forward with a talisman,

with a profession of love,


with a single dried rose

from his own father’s funeral,

with a poem written in stone.

They talk among themselves


and seem confused. You can hear

the wind picking up, can see

the light fading. The light is

fading. Soon the stars will


come out, sharp as diamonds.

Soon he will free himself

from these bonds. Soon he will

turn, leaving them all behind.


Photo By: Anders Sandberg


About Author

Tom Montag is most recently the author of In This Place: Selected Poems 1982-2013, as well as Middle Ground, Curlew: Home, Kissing Poetry’s Sister, The Idea of the Local, and The Big Book of Ben Zen. Recent poems will be found at Architrave Press.The Broken City, The Chaffin Journal, Digital Papercut, Foliate Oak, Hamilton Stone Review, Hummingbird, The Magnolia Review, Mud Season Review, On the Rusk, Plainsong, Riding Light Review, Split Rock, and Stoneboat. He blogs as The Middlewesterner and serves as Managing Editor of the Lorine Niedecker Monograph Series, What Region?

Comments are closed.

%d bloggers like this: