a poem by eric huff
Without saying anything at all
pull the color from the evening. trace me all the way back to the pine forest. my memories of you are
scattered all over the ground. so where did you go in all those summers? the river cuts back and
most nights I can hear you talking past me without saying anything at all. what did this cost? three
ten dollar bills and a handful of quarters? what is there still yet to divide five ways? you were
surprised I had never listened to your favorite gospel hymn but how could I have known? we were
always little stones dropped from some bridge in the middle of the night. cold wash ripples left
radiating outward and back until you couldn’t help but lose sight of me. so, here I am: the small
movements of morning. the stretch and blink. my spirit is golden light poured into the valley and
across prairie grass carried onward by finch and thrush.
Eric Huff (he/him) is a public-school teacher living in the west metro area of the Twin Cities. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as 1913: A Journal of Forms, The Muleskinner Journal, Rockvale Review, After/Thought, Molecule, Livina Press, and Action, Spectacle, among others.