Suppose you’re in a meadow
By Joanne Mallari
This poem appears in the 2023 issue of The Meadow.
and someone has hurt your heart.
I’ll tell you what a therapist
told me, which is that ruminating
on the past breeds depression.
The light will not be more lovely
than it is now, on a winter morning,
when all the intensity of a summer
sunset fits into a few minutes
before 9am. Winter welcomes
a twin energy, like last night
when I drew Inanna’s card
from a deck of divine women.
She invited me to strip down
below my ego. A fortune cookie said
a heart never breaks, but the ego does—
pretty good advice from a mass-produced
wisdom, which will turn cliché
once we spill the hell out of it—
for this reason, I no longer trust sayings
like Everything happens for a reason
or You reap what you sow. Suppose
you’re in a meadow and someone
has broken your ego. I’ll tell you
what a yogi told me: When a lover
says goodbye, the signs are subtle.
You might not remember what you say
in the moment, but you’ll recall
the lead-up, the small motions
like aftershocks in reverse. Notice
how your soon-to-be ex fingers your hair
the way one would fan a letter
in the heat of July. Notice how they look
past your ear, as though preparing
to report the weather.
Joanne Mallari is a Filipino-American, Reno-based poet. She teaches courses in first-year composition and creative writing at the University of Nevada, Reno. Her debut chapbook, Daughter Tongue, was published by Kelsay Books.
Photo courtesy of Joanne Mallari.