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by Catherine Owen




 The Last Aubade

 Everything is silver this morning – not only the river – everything –

the mud, the new unfurnished homes, our cats, my feelings for you –

I’m not afraid to say this – I know little – & I can imagine too many possible lives

to perhaps properly inhabit any of them – but also – love is a wealth in me –


& beauty breaks against all pain without cease – everything is silver – & so this is more

a rant or a chant than a poem – I don’t care anymore what things are called

or how they get fixed in the mind – only that they rupture me – not like death

but like living on afterwards & knowing why – this I know at least – that I can


still see when everything is silver – and call out to you and you echo me – or even

bring me to the edge of sight first – there is nothing perfect between us –

we have each lived too many pasts – but I would rather this now than a story I never

really planned to tell anyway – you understand – and everything – even the crows


this morning – are silver – their wings – as they twist backwards into the light – catching

the days we have left together – silver you could say as scars, or age, or ashes –

silver as what holds everything this morning – after all we’ve been through – over

the always-silver river.