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To My Last Love

by Linda Etheridge
A brownout occurred
that severely chilled night.
I walked in snow,
high heels slipping furiously
on ice and blacktop
trying to locate your hypnotic face.
Streetlights seemed dim,
flickering
(let us find each other
out of all of Manhattan
in spite of hate, avarice).
When I reached Grand Central
my feet dissolved from the cold,
you were there-
I fell into your arms
and died of relief.
Nowadays, I sing to myself
"white bird must fly"
you smile slightly
balancing paintings
in winter's chalice.



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