Carmen Eichman is conjuring on a Sunday afternoon

Sunday Afternoon Conjuring

Our memories, black backwash,
buckle me this afternoon, my silent discourse with you
darkens the day.
I shove you within the holes of my bones,
but you slip out, and I’m trapped in
our universe that no longer exists. I can’t
chew off a foot, rip away flesh to escape.
Can’t take us into the kitchen, cook the past, season it with resolve, use it to
sop up the gravy of regret, or throw the left over chunks off my patio
into the trees for feral cats and raccoons to eat when the night is darkest.

I conjure you, piercing myself, meticulously,
the way I stick earrings through my lobes
each morning to look pretty; your ghost appears,
knows just when to slide up along my back, brush gently
against my neck, as I lift my chin, close my eyes. I look for cleansing
in new blood but fear clots
blocking my heart, my brain.
Ach du liebe gott. Your passion could make me forget about God.
On these afternoons, I stare out windows,
past trees, past  buildings,
into voids where I push, hard,
but seems only through you I breathe,
our hands locked, keeping the band on my finger warm,
as spring begins and dies.

Carmen Eichman
earned her Masters Degree in Creative Writing & Literature from
Kansas State University and is now an Assistant Professor of English & Honors Chair, living in North Carolina. Eichman’s poetry has
appeared in A
Little Poetry, All Things Girl, The Argotist Online, Subtle Tea,
Invisible Ink, The Dan River Review, Borderline, Thick with Conviction
and Contemporary American Voices
to name a few. She is currently at work on her fourth novel and third
collection of poetry.

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