Jo Angela Edwins
Suddenly
in a dream that had nothing to do with you,
there you were, satchel slung across your shoulder,
the age you were when I first knew and loved you,
in a library, of course, but one we’d never been in—
bright with windows, absent any books—
but full of students, and you were talking freely
with them, as you always did, your smile
flashing from time to time a genuine joy,
and I sat alone, half-hidden by carrel walls,
but stunned to see you because I already knew
you were dead, and I wanted one last time
to hear your voice say something kind to me,
so I called your name, and again, and again,
and at last you turned, ice blue eyes affixed
on mine, and you never looked away,
and you never spoke but stepped instead backwards,
backwards, out of my sight, until the dream
went back to having nothing to do with you,
and I forgot I’d even seen you, which, on waking,
left me hollow, quietly staring into the dark.
Jo Angela Edwins lives in South Carolina, where she teaches college students and enjoys reading mysteries, tending to cats, and writing poetry.