Discarded vials of blue oud
and tomato leather left strewn askew
on the bathroom shelf.
I wonder if you noticed this metaphor of ampules
in medias res.
I wonder if you remember you told me
how worried you were
your mother was going blind.
Which I took to mean you were anxious
that
the only person on earth who sees you
will soon be gone.
Distance measures both time and space. As in:
They were as sad and bereft as
I’ve ever seen
anyone by some distance.
Walking into the mist of blue oud
is like tossing rice into the air at a wedding
and stepping forward into the gentle
diaspora of debris.
We visit mom by remixing
her traditions and traveling
into her clouds.
Josh Feit’s poems have appeared in several journals, including: Spillway, Bee House, Nova Literary Arts Magazine, and previously in Midsummer Dream House. He has written two poetry collections: Shops Close Too Early (Cathexis NW Press, 2022) and The Night of Electric Bikes (Finishing Line Press, 2023). In 2024, he won Common Ground Review’s Second Place poetry prize and was a finalist for The Wolfson Chapbook prize. In 2023, he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize by Bainbridge Island Press. In 2020, he was shortlisted for the Vallum Poetry Award, winning Honorable Mention. A longtime journalist, he is the speechwriter at Seattle’s regional transit agency.