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Rose Dallimore Poem
I am nothing but the names of the trees,
imprinted in my soft topography,
recollections of sappy hands in yours
easing out splinters from our shared outdoors.
I am nothing but rustling in the kudzu,
smiling far away at us, the ones who
rub petals together, powdering lips
with pollen, half-smiles, and our rose-red quips.
I am nothing but the stories you saved,
scattered at night for the light that I craved
I only walk in day, with your eyes and smile
and wildflowers paved in the path all the while.
Within your seeping garden, more seeds grow
than you, my mother, ever planned to sow.
Copyright © Rose Dallimore | Year Posted 2019
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Rose Dallimore Poem
She often leaves her glasses off for an hour each morning to experience the blur—the communion of the leaves on trees into living masses, the gradience of the colors inside her refrigerator, the weighty facelessness of the people whom she encounters as she drinks her coffee and wraps the scarf more tightly around her neck in defense against the city autumn. When she replaces the frames on the bridge of her nose, only because she must—
everything sharpens.
no questions linger in the
air. she sighs, begins.
Copyright © Rose Dallimore | Year Posted 2019
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Rose Dallimore Poem
I know that you’ll pretend to be asleep
to sip and slurp the darkness in my eyes.
While steely train-tracks slide and jump and weep
in your sick, slick, and slackening July,
my amtrak seat stays sticking to my thighs
Copyright © Rose Dallimore | Year Posted 2019
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Rose Dallimore Poem
Traffic circle sloshing;
pedestrians pressing up
against tensile city regulations,
flashing horns and sweat,
university student afternoon,
wiping off iced coffee condensation.
I am a dedicated historian of
lunchtime stories and
park bench vignettes—
a spectacled lesbian runs her pinky
through her lover’s curly purple hair,
as she looks on at the cyclist, filled with regret,
stumbling to avoid the picnicking workers—
together by convenience and ambition—
who pity the down-on-their-luck in their dehydration,
trying to find a pillow on the steps of the fountain.
The rims of my glasses eliminate the peripheral,
underlining the weight of disjointed conversations:
a chuckle, a skipped step to avoid a puddle
sweeping the storefront, eroding the road,
I remain, trying to separate scenes from the bustling.
The circle never exists the same again.
What does it mean if I dream about you?
What does it means when I see your face in nothing…
Copyright © Rose Dallimore | Year Posted 2019
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