|photo credit: Stewart Ferebee|
This is Not a Love Poem
Through the warped glass of the bedroom window
she watches him, in the garden at night
amid a teepee of pinto beans
killing earwigs and roly-polys,
bent with a hammer in one hand, a flashlight
in the other. Her teeth press lips against glass.
With a leg over the saddle of his hip
sinew of thigh he inhales
she opens an inch he exhales
she seams herself to each mole
nipples, belly button, cesarean scar he sleeps.
At rest, her elbow on his shoulder
book in hand
licks a finger
turns a page.
Three days of cheshire and a cuckolded moon
she does not miss him.
she works the air for his scent.
she thinks she sees him
but it's a rotting pine, a stellar jay, a ski lift, no--
She does not miss him.
originally published in the The Cold Mountain Review