Saturday, May 27, 2017

Twelve Lines Running Across Our Bed

It’s a gray-laced tennis shoe leaning on its mate
or blinding beams of sunrise when walking at dawn.
Sometimes it’s the once red fade of thin lips gone blue.

Stare at it. Watch it become God on Judgment Day,
Satan taking names at baby’s First Communion.
Squint now for focus. See it blur into concrete

gray as the hair beneath a dye so black it’s blue.
You wash its ashen feet with tears and perfumed oil.
Its room fills with bric-a-brac and the aroma

of your forever-and-ever-ago: cut grass, warm bread,
pancakes-and-bacon-and-hot-coffee mornings,
Brylcreem and aftershave, sheets needing cleansed.


First appeared in Literary Orphans - May 2017

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