No Matter What
Jennifer Angelina Petro
At some point or another
One of these poems will be my last.
Whichever season it lands in
Holds a key, or, better said—
A gesture as to how it will unfold
Into your life. No matter what
Wind will be blowing outside,
Roots will expand and contract,
Night will come, and the moon will be phasing
Behind the clouds, and blue screen lights
Will dim under your hands,
And floor boards will creak beneath
Your feet as you step into another room—
Thinking: What was being said between the lines?
Where does it all lead anyway?
Will we meet there? What will she look like?
Will there be a river and cherry blossoms?
Will there be angels, and, if so,
Will they be silent or singing?