Edward Lineberry

We’re so different people
think we’re not together.
Thousands of yous,
millions of yous in the city,
but only a handful of mes.
They take pictures of me.
Talk about my past and point.
I’m on postcards at the hotel gift shop.
I’ll be here long after you’re gone.
The winter will strip you to dirt,
and the wise know
when I’m ground to nothing by wind,
on the day I burn and my
wet ashes breathe the last cloud of smoke,
on the day I crumble, children
scamper across my mindless feet.
My dear, you will rise in colors
I could never be
in a body I could never have
and draw to you a kingdom of beasts,
an army of industry to touch
you with appendages I never had
and devour you with mute senses.
No one could ever shade you like me.
Without me you have only sky.

Edward Lineberry is a poet and fiction writer living in Atlanta. His work has appeared in the Magnolia Review, Prelude, and Rivanna Review.