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Maria Kranidas


Perhaps returning to the city

with open wounds

keeps you grounded

in the leaps of thunder

A man can finally claim his liquor

and put the web of decisions aside

struggle through the jokes of time

and grab a place under the sun

wonder through memories

like someone stuck

in the moonlight

Nothing to be grateful for

sharpens his face

through details

come to an end

sleep and stare at the TV

journeys without children

lie away and eyes full of crowds

his head and legs weak

his heart empty

he knows only yesterday

tomorrow is too late

to the stiffness of a smile

cats come and go in the front yard

looking for scraps

the favorite one vanished

she entered the house

licked and begged for love

then left -he still remembers the black dots above her eyes

returning to empty bowls

tickling flowers with her nose

slowly to the house comes

as a stranger navigates

through darkness with habit

remote control in hand

believes in the direction of the sea.

Turning memories inside out

finding the doorstep

still stained by the memory of a plant

stolen-which visitor took it?

only one who had the chance to think

of home abandonment

he notices the ghost of a woman

who suffers and cries in the corner

of the room

where the wedding bed used to be

before it was army infantry

stirs up old wounds and traces

life’s shadows

she hums a familiar war song

on her way out

she drifts like a breeze

that never comes through

Maria Kranidis teaches at Suffolk County Community College, New York. Her work has appeared in Cabaret, State of the Art, Rio, Cassandra, Confrontation, Poetry Magazine, Best Poem, Apollo’s Lyre, Long Island Quarterly and Have a NYC : Collection of Short Stories, and Salt & Pepper & Silver Linings: Anthology of Stories, and ArLijo Journal.