January Pearson

Losing a Mate

Perched on a stem,
    two dragonflies bend
       into one another, their
         iridescence electric, the tip
           of one slender body tucked
               into the other, two curves
                 connected, commas intertwined.
                    The old widower jokes to hide
                        his sadness, apologizing
                          when his eyes cannot stem
                            the waters. Who told him
                              that grief dries like rainfall
                                on a leaf, vanishing
                                in a breeze? Had they
                              felt the loss of someone
                            deeply loved, how there
                          is a tear in the air, how
                        the one who is left
                      exists beside an empty
                    curve, where the slope
                  of her arm pressed his,
                as they watched the news,
              the arc of her body near
            him, as they fell asleep,
          the one left alone, now
        dangling on a twig,
      a half circle.

Author Portrait

January Pearson lives in Southern California with her husband and two daughters. She teaches in the English department at Kaplan University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gargoyle Magazine, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Four Chambers Press, Timberline Review, The Chiron Review, Scintilla Press, and Modern Haiku.