Portrait, in Miniature - Michael Dwayne Smith

I think of you,

and the smallest breeze disperses you

like the leaves of an unbound novel.

I am unable to sweep up with my hands

what remains of you.

I think of you,

but you disappear by degrees everyday

like leaves beneath a falling snow.

I am undone by how increasingly hard it is

to see you at all.

The more I think of you, the more your face

fades to an intaglio of sorrow,

the more withered and veined we become.

I cannot retrieve you.

I see only this locket

portrait I’ve painted: winter’s twin bodies

in our bed, clothed, untouched,

uncomforted—neither sleeping

as night’s last howl and stir leaves us.

Originally published by Dead Snakes, 2013

Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including Bending Genres, The Cortland Review, Gyroscope Review, Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, Heavy Feather Review, Heron Tree, and Chiron Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Poetry Prize, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and multiple Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominations, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses.