by Jennifer Gawinski Cuming
Beneath bright planets, in the chill,
although I slumber, you haunt me still.
A shadow in the dusk, you keep your watch.
Silence, cold air—I can’t feel your warm touch.
Clocks tick; no need for their reminders.
No place to be—through walls you wander—
without a map, blind intuition.
How should I follow, my inspiration?
I trace the footprints of your life:
bottles we drank, the texts you’d write,
the books you loved—places you knew.
My hands reach out, cannot find you.
Each night, I stare at blinking stars,
wishing, again, I’m where you are.
Jennifer Gawinski Cuming is a poet from Wisconsin whose work explores memory, grief, resilience, and the enduring connections that shape our lives. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Persephone Literary Magazine, Summur, The Raven Review, and several anthologies.