It was the way he stood, ending proximity. His arms folded like a woman clutching her purse in a dark alley. You could fit a counter between us. I could be checking his coat or taking his order at dawn in a twenty-four hour truck stop. In the length of an ellipsis, I wrote a …
As she watched Josiah repairing the wood-stove, she nearly wondered aloud. What the hell was she doing? Why come back here? She had no good answer for that; or, more accurately, the answer didn’t seem enough. This baby. Josie was once almost her father-in-law, but she had walked out on his son and this baby …
A father’s ashes in a blue box on the vanity. Bits of the last heartbreak handwritten on a window. A garden gone reckless for the winter. My secrets are not kept in the usual places.
Before the beautiful assistant climbs into the box, I leave, afraid he will forget the rest.
Mourning I went out into the mud and rain to watch stalled horses, nervous and full of heat, neigh and kick at thunder until the storm passed, and the ghost was given.
Sometimes I pretend there was moonlight, ample. That your body was lit bright. That my eyes closed with no other choice. On other nights, I remember that it was dark. That there were no streetlights. That the stars, smothered by the clouds, could not see us, and all we had was touch.
Skin lurid and out of sequence, seldom do these intervals lift the dawn close enough that I don’t need to squint, but this morning I am wide-eyed and there is a quality of light, gypsy and unfolding. I wait for it to find your body, mute.