c o n v e r g e n c e:
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EDITOR'S CHOICE: cynthia linville's

Connie Post

Photograph by Myles Boisen
Photograph by Myles Boisen


By Connie Post

She swears she will never
remove this dress

at least not from over the shoulder
and never before midnight

only when Fall has turned away
only when the window
does not notice her
leaving like solstice

will she find the fabric
from which it was made

she will kneel
at the wooden chest
at the foot of her bed

call up the gods of fabric
and languid August skies

she loves pulling out the patterns again
feeling the thin paper, as if it were a sky
yet to be made

she will again remember the store clerk
cutting the cloth so carefully
as if it were a shadow

the effortless folding
its scent, nestled inside
the creased paper bag

she will kneel
for the longest time
again, understand
the simple kindness of a shoulder strap
the way faded cotton
can remember a falling moon

she will carefully hide
the hem lines of summer

quietly tucking in
each edge
like a prayer


By Connie Post

We once folded
the same beige blanket
each night
before bed

you taking one end
me the other

you taught me how to tuck in
the corners
assure it was oblong
and perfect
like your straightened apron

after two steps
to the center
we would meet

I watched carefully
how you would complete the act
—such relief and retribution
in finding order

in the stepping away
I always wondered if you knew
how empty my hands felt after
they dropped to my side

in leaving the room
I understood how quiet
was folded and put away

I find myself turning in the edges
of frayed hours

I spend each night
waiting for an ordinary dusk
to meet me
somewhere in the middle


By Connie Post

That night in December,
sheets of rain fell down like
hard earned wisdom

the two lane freeway you chose
fell prey

the mud was exhumed from beneath the asphalt
stirring the storm of the season

in the report
they said you died instantly
at the moment of impact
there was no suffering

a small comfort when I fall inside
nights of shallow slumber and torrential rage

I look for reasons in the secret sorcery of the seasons
but find none

I think back to the days you used to drive me home
over that short gravel road with no sign,
and I think of my body, turning into itself
each time the car would stop suddenly
like our conversation

how could I have known then
that the sudden stops would creep into my
like dust in the tires

how could I have known I would
remember most
your hand on the gear shift,
before I left

how could I have known
that every day

your moment of impact
would become mine

Connie Post

Connie Post

Connie Post served as the first Poet Laureate of Livermore, California from 2005- 2009. Her work has appeared in The Aurorean, Calyx, Barnwood International, Kalliope, Cold Mountain Review,Crab Creek Review, Comstock Review, DMQ Review, Dogwood, Pirene’s Fountain, The Pedestal Magazine, Psychic Meatloaf, Sliptstream, Blue Fifth Review, Tule Review, and The Toronto Quarterly. She was the winner of the Cover Prize for the Spring 2009 issue of The Dirty Napkin and the winner of the 2009 Caesura Poetry Awards from Poetry Center of San Jose. Her most recent book And When the Sun Drops is available from Finishing Line Press. She is the host of the popular Valona Deli Second Sunday Poetry Series in Crockett, California.

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