Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. 

Full circle

Looking into the mirror they saw
faces so familiar
on the other side through the clouds.
 
It was early yet as the light rose
at a famed hour
above a straight line of destiny.
 
In clamor they sat before the news
unchanged
devouring this energy to sleepy creatures.
 
Prisoners of a forced silence they looked
down at a desk
scolded for what they did not do but did.
 
Trapped in the river of gases and decibels
suffocated
they coughed their way to others like them.
 
Facing through the glass as darkness prevailed
faithfully anew
they recognized their image in gentle vagueness.
 
Side by side, he and she, wishing for a touch
wrinkled by life
now unconscious as if yet nothing had passed.

Last Tear

In a corner at the end of the line
she sits
a tear
wants to run its course to oblivion.
 
Alert to the prayers of another moment
silent
she sighs
a bundle of ache averts her gentle breath.
 
The ebony waves hide the sky-blue gaze
of her soul
she cries
inside in secret behind the wall of a past force.
 
Alone again, safe from the impending stranger
pain
she hides
everything to disappear into her shell of steel.
 
The crowd around her now an abstraction
she loves
passionately
the creation where she knows all answers reside. 

Signature

The presence is signed on the old photograph hanging
there on the left wall, by the window built of trusted
hands, while outside the tree wants attention.
 
He too can write on the pane of the ancient glass.
 
Finger prints on the side of the redwood desk, tend
to the forgotten elbow, never fully able to rest on
the worn-out couch, trampoline for young charm.
 
It hoped its future would be of leather; but not so.
 
The room screams with memories it alone keeps safe;
the air is filled with sparring souls attempting an accord;
freckles of dust, sparks of their little power inflamed.
 
Wishing they had landed on the feature of a Mona Lisa.
 
Unwilling to shine, the lamp, secure under her banged shade,
would like to jump at them and empower their dying light,
while planted on the thinning carpet, they remain quiet.
 
Waiting for another moment, another time, to become.