Sally Bliumis-Dunn

Angie, Leaving

I watch her differently now,

frame her smiling


in the kitchen doorway,

blow drying her hair


in the mirror; I add

a random


an image here, image

there to the invisible album


I keep of her inside me:

riding a two- wheeler,


gap of missing teeth.

Now, as she readies


herself for college,

it’s the ordinary I linger on –


her leaving, too large

for any one thing; it’s more


uniform, indiscriminate

something like fog; no


more like snow.  

And I don’t see, but feel


the air, full of her

lovely falling.


Isn’t it always like this –

joy and sorrow calling


to each other

across an open field.


How strange the heart’s

equivalents –


she is leaving:

it is snowing.



“Angie, Leaving” is from Talking Underwater (Wind Publications, 2007).