Monday, February 9, 2015


He lay under a cheap, red quilt, his face turned away. The other one lay with his feet on his pillow, his face turned toward her and up. She saw her words come out of her mouth, wind up the pull cord of the overhead fan (it was off), settle there, stuck in the dust. Her hands waved in the air. She conjured tears. I'm going to cry! His face turned from the wall, the red cover over his chin. He looked straight up. Do you understand? I can't take it anymore! The other one smiled, a squirm. His big toe bent toward the second one, enfolded it, a fat pad.

She had lost track of their feet, first.


  1. Who are these angels we nursed at our breasts turned into agents of turmoil and chaos?
    Who are they?
    Love the parlor maple bloom. I think mine died in a freeze this year.

  2. I don't even know how to comment on this, except to say it is beautiful and haunting, and it leaves me a little sad. You are such a poet. You say so much in so few words. The images. They sear themselves in the mind's eye.



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