SUSAN BLACKWELL RAMSEY

SOLACE

Odd word. A hiss
on each end, yawn
in the middle. Or
just a breath furling out,
reeling back, strained
through teeth.
The sound of one wave.
Under
Scott Joplin’s hands
it stumbles, lovely,
syncopated limp.
Hesitates.
Continues.

Not
exactly comfort, not
consolation. Solitary
word. It’s a thing
you find in something
else, a door that opens
under a flat hand. A warm
dry room surrounded
by storm.