A Seasoned Love It is strength of mature years and memories of loves too eagerly claimed and lost that keep me from running my fingers through your hair too soon. I've learned to savor and taste each spice, each fruit, each flavor. Still lightning flashes when you look at me so close. Your eyes are soft now but I've seen them steady and brown like trees so tall and strong. I've climbed them to their tops to see the promise of our future. I can only imagine what you see in mine.
~ Tramia Jackson
Marriage to a Widower This morning, at breakfast, my husband regales me with stories and poems, bits and pieces of yesterday’s news, so many memories crowding his mind. Yes, it’s sweet, but throughout his long litany, the word we rears its hissing head and I am left to wonder: to what degree are the dead really dead, how much more than an urn of ashes under the snow, under the marble bench engraved with both their names? I’ve pulled out my best recipes, my checkbook, my most alluring gowns. I’ve lotioned my limbs, made warm the marital bed, but who can compete with this ghost from the grave? I find her in the hallway, her ear pressed to the wall. She creeps into the bedroom. Above our love-making she whispers, staring down at me from the airy ceiling.
~ Pia Taavila-Borsheim
Spring 2014 Volume 2, Issue 1
A compilation of the Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, Volumes 1 and 2 (2013-2014)