Lost Property

By P.K. Harmon / Issue 11

When I divorced I lost a lot of stuff
But not the kids

When the sun dipped below the ocean
The light flashed green

When the porch light blew out to ashy
Filament the stars burst open

When the AC eventually died the breeze
Came through the window

And when dad died and then mom
I waited and now I know about waiting

When the country went to shit
I had already left the country

None of it was mine but
For a little while

When the tide went out
It took a slipper

When the sun rose we left
Our beds and the dark behind

The past was a borrowed place
The present is too and the future

Is dark and bright and dark and
Bright and dark and bright and

Not mine and not ours but I’ve made
Sure we are together

I do not belong to anyone but
But the kids until whenever

And since ever since
Which is a turn of phrase

I’ve borrowed.

P.K. HARMON is the author of What Island, winner of the Serving House First Book Prize in Poetry from Fairleigh-Dickinson University. Harmon lives in Mangilao, Guam, with his two children. Recent poems can be found in Gesture Literary Review, Fogged Clarity, and Southeast Review, and are forthcoming in The Colorado Review.