I stared
at the silent phone
listened for a footstep
beyond the doorknob
that did not move.
Outside, the sun was still up.
I waited and paced,
wearing a track in the hotel carpet.
The luminous clock face on the nightstand flashed 4 a.m.
You left us there, without so much as a see you later.
To wait and wonder
Forsaking us to the dread that overwhelms me now.
The pimply platoon that reappears to march up and down my arms
soldiers marooned with no place to go and nothing but time and fear to kill.
I share this sad night with our twelve-year- old son, an innocent casualty of your private scheme.
Then open and close the shade in the hotel room again.
Noting that it is finally getting dark. It is July
here in Fairbanks, where nothing is fair,
the days are endless, and we wait sleepless
for you to return from your private
birthday celebration.
Published by
C. S. De Dona
Author, Poet, Photographer, domestic violence survivor, and naturalized immigrant, Cornelia is currently an Arts and Letters member of The Southwest Florida Branch of The National League Of American Pen Women.
Cornelia lived in Kaneohe, Hawaii, for thirty-six years. Also, seven years in the Mid-Hudson Valley of New York. She now resides in North Fort Myers, Florida.
Her poems and photography are published in print, online, and in Rain Bird, a literary and art journal of the University of Hawaii's Windward Community College (2008-2013).
In 2013, Cornelia received Rain Bird's Kolokolea Poetry Prize for her poem, "Speaking French."
In 2016, her chapbook "Hawaiian Time," entered in the National League of American Pen Women's Vinnie Ream contest, was awarded third place in their inaugural multi-discipline category.
View all posts by C. S. De Dona