The name on the letter, Eurydice
In my restless dreams I see the town, (sliver of a chance to make it right, fulfill broken promises), town with the special place I hold behind clouded eyes, town that holds the dead in like the last word withheld, with so much left to say—Eurydice, rising in dreams, waiting on the silent shore. If a dead person can’t write a letter, why write back? Lost, looking for the town, how many roads like this must I walk, in the fog? In this restless dream, the hotel looms on the lake-- I wonder if it’s still there—you look like her a bit—I loved her. In my restless dreams, we stand forever on the bridge and make our stand against the mirror below, holding secrets of an urn awaiting tears, of a silent town awaiting your voice, of reflections that feign life, in dream. Paul S. Rowe is co-editor of The Charles River Journal, published by Pen & Anvil Press in Boston. Paul's criticism, reviews, interviews, and poems appear in Literary Imagination, Pusteblume, The New England Review of Books, PopMatters, FIVE:2:ONE, Eyewear, and Berfrois. Paul teaches literature and writing at Endicott College and Merrimack College and is hard at work editing the novel The Taletellers by Peter Caputo. |