You Don't Know Me But (Weldon)

I miss you, fellow walkers – dad with double stroller,

rainbow legging woman, earnest black hound hauling

graybeard man on a never-slack leash.

I miss the Marc’s check-out clerk with three nose rings,

bitten nails, sardonic asides.

Miss the librarian whose voice is soft as my mother’s was

back when I sobbed myself weak, her hand

stroking my hair while she looked out the window.

Wherever you are now, I wish you well.

Cast light around you each night before sleep. I want

your granny to pull through, your job to stick around, your

landlord to grant you every dispensation. I want flowers

to sprout in your garbage, old milk to turn into yogurt.

May your junk mail transform into loans forgiven,

scholarships granted, grievances forgotten.

May we see each other soon, smile in recognition,

reimagine a world where we all breathe free.

Laura Grace Weldon is the author of three books, most recently the poetry collection Blackbird (Grayson Books, 2019). She works as a book editor and teaches writing. Laura and her husband live on a small farm where in non-pandemic times they host art parties, house concerts, and odd dinners.