2 poems

by Peggy Hammond

That curve

comes after a straightaway,

a tempting slick

of road begging 

for gunning it,

for rumbling 

mufflers,

for laughing

boys.

This morning

it’s decorated

with three crosses,

not a local

Golgotha,

instead portal

for teenagers,

young lions,

who leapt the

shadowy ravine

between here

and mystery.

Rain-blind 

afternoon,

mother of one

at home, twelve

seconds close,

close enough 

to hear

but not know,

her boy had flown,

no glance back,

no kiss goodbye.

you were gone

by the time

i learned your name.

your only companions

were late august breezes,

western skies

blanketing you

with starshine.

on the run, the boy

who saw your

chest rise and

fall the final 

time, 

who left you

in a forest yellow 

with grief.

i wish you

were still 

snapping photos, 

still posing,

smile 

luminous.

i wish 

i didn’t know 

your name.

Peggy Hammond’s recent poems appear or are forthcoming in Pangyrus, The Comstock Review, For Women Who Roar, Fragmented Voices, The Sandy River Review, ONE ART, Burningword Literary Journal, Dear Reader, Eunoia Review, and elsewhere.  A Best of the Net nominee, her chapbook The Fifth House Tilts is due out fall 2022 (Kelsay Books).  Follow her at @PHammondPoetry.