Martha Landman

for Effie

Today, on our walk from Serendip,
I lost everything I’ve known before.
Strangely poised, I felt no despair.

We met many faces as we wandered
through the rolling pastures and the
breeze kissed the hills with August.

Twenty seven horses grazed lazily.
Only when we met them at the fence
did I mourn my loss of focus, my

carte blanche, my designer boulevards.
I sipped the daily news, certain that
some candlelight crossed our minds.

Late that night, yeast cake in hand, I
approached Saint Phanourios who
translated my murmurings.

His face unmartyred, ennui revealed,
he said to me: I don’t like the last line.
I found the horizon, unlit, unedged.