Leila Shebaro
| poetry


dilapidation on the lawn
we watch without sorrow;
a chair, perhaps
is the irretrievable earth


appraising, I think,
this came from my father’s country
where bricks are the color of melancholy,
but of course it’s much older


what drips from this furniture,
stinking old, waterlogged,
carted over by our docile forebears
who fled the land, like monks moving icons


what does it hold
but foreboding, ignoble imprints, strange oils
from ancient hands, and dust
dusty water, disgusting


Leila Shebaro lives and works as a writer in North Carolina. This is her first poetry publication.

After He Leaves