You leave,
toting, above your head,
a halo
on your way to some place
that may not even exist
and you’re no angel
but you always thought
a glowing circle
where your wavy hair ends
and sky begins
suits you –
that’s why you walk
slowly, warily
so you don’t drop it,
pray under your breath,
not to God,
but to the best you in a mirror,
because should your halo
fall and shatter,
there’d be no piecing it back together,
so you take one careful step at a time,
hold your head erect,
as the wind picks up,
and passing traffic tries
to grab your attention,
and even birds
and kids playing in their yards,
have it in for you
and that preposterous floating tiara,
and a guy polishing his car whistles,
and an old woman leans out her second floor window,
says, “Just look at that”
and not in a kind way,
as you don’t risk turning,
nor opening your mouth,
to acknowledge or disprove
the world,
for you’re stuck with this moving pose,
and can only go forward
and now the falling leaves
come after you
and fumes from an auto graveyard
and conversations between perfect strangers
and even the spinning of the earth
that spins shadows like a web
and a downtick
in the weather
that makes cold and rainy
the new norm –
yet still the halo holds –
by now,
it’s as dark,
as chilly,
as dank,
as its surroundings
but it holds.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.
