Pause

By Douglas K. Currier

I ripen daily— a peach, a plum
the color of bruise for each time
death brushes me. A touch
is a new scar; an arthritic poke
is a painful joint or a grip impaired
by memory and goodwill.

I am a rock, smoothed by sand and tide,
wave-washed and unrecognizable.

I admit, I have wondered how it all
goes so quickly— accelerated uselessness,
relegated to watching the world shrink,
the word fall into disuse, the warp
and woof of life no longer a concern.

It won’t be long before I invite death in
— the only woman who will listen
to the long pause in conversation
I have become.

Douglas K. Currier holds an MFA in Writing from the University of Pittsburgh and has published work in several anthologies: Onion River: Six Vermont Poets, Getting Old, and Welcome to the Neighborhood, as well as journals: Café Review, Main Street Rag, Comstock Review, Stone, and others, both in the United States and in South America. He writes in both English and Spanish and lives with his wife in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.

Why we chose this piece: The opening to this poem is stellar, and we love Douglas’s subtle use of rhythm and alliteration. Seriously, what an excellent use of “warp and woof.” The way he tackles the subject of aging in this poem resonated with us a lot.