Good Friday

Poetry by Stuart Gunter
Issue 38 • April 2016 • Schuyler

I am ready for April to be over,
and it hasn’t even started.

And I wish. I wish things had turned out differently.
I wish, when he was walking around saying
“I am god”
the week prior, I had had a clue.

Today, the clouds cover the sun, much like they did in 1987,
although the day was brilliantly sunny … funny how
the years cast a patina over the truth.

You ran out of the house and were gone for hours.
Where did you go?
What did you do?
Did you see?

The flowers, I am certain, were brilliantly colored
(the cadmium lipochromes of the jonquils, the red of the tulips, the pink of the roses).
And the passersby, unmoved by what moved us.

What moved us? The darkening of youth. The death
of a friend. (Was he a friend?) The music unplayed
in the basement,
where the amps still hummed in the dark.

Stuart Gunter is a Virginian by birth who, having flirted with Nashville and Paris, always returns to live in the Commonwealth so that he may play drums in obscure rock bands and float the Rockfish River on a whim.

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