Poems by Tricia Marcella Cimera

The Consolation of Embers

you grind your disdain into me

like a burning cigarette

later you’ll flick your ashes

of indifference at my feet

but not just yet

so there is that consolation

although I admit

it’s

slowly

dissipating

like

smoke

or

hope

Untitled

The past

is a village

where the lights

remain on

in certain rooms

of some houses

and the last words

that we spoke

in those rooms

sway from silver cords

in the unmoving

air.