Michael Lauchlan

An Ache Like

a wet street’s midnight gleam
recalling the walk home
after you spoke your last word

to the first woman you loved
and a song that trails you
like a stray       Like your tires

rumbling in the gap between
radio news and the shrill
of your own monologue

Or like a river swallowing its bank
after a storm and a blank road
gaping from the new-made lake

Or your face looking back
from the usual mirror without
a hint of recognition    Not those--

but water hauled down a block
a flame in the shoulders of a woman
lugging the five gallon pail

a wire handle creasing her hand
as it sloshes and she fights
a small war against gravity

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Michael Lauchlan has contributed to many publications, including New England Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, The North American Review, Nimrod, Sugar House Review, Louisville Review, Poet Lore, Southern Poetry Review and Poetry Ireland. His most recent collection is Trumbull Ave., from WSU Press (2015).