We speak of sorrow
as if it is a dark stone,
and not the ocean

forever crashing
against the shore. Slick seaweed
grasping sun-kissed toes.

Wading into cold
salt sea that scours this bright world.
Grief and gift enough.

Colleen Keefe, September 2022

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In the early autumn days of that year
we would walk out of our house
onto a street that sloped down
to Cresheim Creek and Wissahickon
and, later, the sea. The creek bed
was strewn with pea gravel and rock and
tree falls and bleached branches
and soft brown pine needles
covered the steep banks.
Cold water ran clear quick
through it all.

Bright yellow school buses
lumbered down narrow blocks
that had not seen them
in a year or more, and soot
rose to stain row home windows.
Leaves turned in the wake
of kids in hoodies marching home,
and the sidewalks fell silent after that,
the pavement pale grey
except for the leaves.

Colleen Keefe, October 2021

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Colleen Keefe

Colleen Keefe

I’m a Philadelphia based artist, curator and now, apparently, writer. Transgender. Pronouns: they/them. www.colleenkeefe.com