Late August. The last dregs of summer pour out

in murky and tepid sunlight. It lingers briefly over

immiscible surfaces, glistening. Another year

ruined. You are missed by all the places you bruised

with your love and your leave-taking. Numbed, plumb

full of treachery I am pulled down and dawn

to dusk must drag the depths of memory

for stray remnants

or traces

of you. Everything once luminous now emerges

morbidly tumescent,


misshapen. Each time I resurface

my gradually unhinging

bones clink

clatter, rush forward to scoop up

anything I have retrieved

(scum shell salt silt)

wailing out with gratitude. This can’t be it,

this can’t be it, this can’t be it. I wring

my grief each time I weep.

Whet the heart with every blink and breath.

Maša Torbica

writes poetry in English and Serbian. Her recent work has appeared in Versal, Understorey, and Vesti. She is a PhD candidate and instructor at the University of Waterloo in Canada.

Contributions by Maša Torbica