John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many literary journals, online and in print, since 2009. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

WATER

Your eyes were still water,
your hair a gushing spring;

your body was quivering steam,
your words small hunks of ice;

your breath was an ocean,
your anger gathered in clouds;

your smile condensed on the windows,
your sadness languished in a hidden well;

your hands were hot water on a stone,
you drifted away as subtly as the tide

but not before
I drank/I bathed/I swam/I drowned.

PASSING STORM

She was a passing storm
But she felt like a hurricane.
The thunder and lightning are gone now
But the rain
Remains.

The rain continues.
The flowers, ever folded,
Wait for respite.
My desires now hidden,
Burrowed deeply in my heart.

She felt like a hurricane
But she was just a passing storm.
The thunder and lightning are gone now
But the rain
Remains.

A GOOD WOMAN

She’s a good woman,
His one and only wife.
When he was called to war
She kissed him goodbye
And waved the next morning
At the columns of soldiers
That passed the gates of the city
And disappeared over the hill,
Her husband one of them.
The great noise and the fanfare
And then he was gone.

Since then, there has been no word,
No news of him.
The war is not over.
The war is never over,
It just becomes another war.
In the distance the soldiers are moved about,
Used, killed –
Their bones rotting under the battlegrounds
While new meat is constantly introduced.
She waits for news
About a man who may now be just bones under a battlefield.

Until she knows for sure she must be taciturn.
She must look out at the setting sun
And imagine the outline of his body
Black and walking toward her
From over the hill where he disappeared.
She must do that at each sunset
Until he appears or someone brings the news.
She must sweep the porch. Tend the garden.
Squint over the memories of a soldier
Who was once a man
And if he comes home
Can shed his uniform 
And maybe be a man again.

Another day is passing into night.
On the horizon the outline of his body is not there
And the battleground far away is being splattered
In fresh blood.
Perhaps it’s his blood spilling now
Or his blood already dried and forgotten beneath the new blood.
Perhaps he is fighting still 
Or he has been told he is finished
And tomorrow she will see who can only be him
Walking before the setting sun over the hill just past the gates.
Until then,
She waits.
She’s a good woman.
A good woman waits.