By Ruth Bardon

I want to believe that pleasure leaves 
a light stain on the bones. 

They say the body remembers pain; 
they never mention joy. 

I know that pain accumulates,  
fattens like a tick. 

I want to believe 
in a quiet shine, 

some ruffled fur, a subtle scent, 
a sprinkling of light. 

I told myself repeatedly 
when she was busy dying 

that our little celebrations 
would have to do her good, 

would have to leave a fingerprint, 
a residue of gladness, 

and now that you and I repeat 
the steps we took before, 

the visits and the guided tours 
as if we’d never been there, 

I have to hope that even though 
I know we won’t remember, 

the strange delights will mark our bones  
and metamorphosize, 

and nourish something in our blood 
to help us at the end. 

---

Ruth Bardon is very happy to be published again in New Ohio Review. Her poems have also appeared in Boulevard, The Cincinnati Review, Salamander, and other journals. She’s the author of Witness, published by Meadowlark Press, and two chapbooks (Demon Barber, published by The Main Street Rag, and What You Wish For, published by Finishing Line Press). She holds an MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and a PhD from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and she lives in Durham, North Carolina.