Molly Spencer Of the old pilings pricking up out of the water, a broken spine. Already you have turned back toward the car. Already the end of us begins To take shape In your shadow—slanted, shifting, nothing I can touch.
3. I still don’t know what to say about the dawn. How it crawled up from a bled sky, easterly. Four o’clock now and the birches scuff And groan against each other, scuff and groan. The blanched light of the sun admits its ancient frailty. The river slips along as if it will never be stone. In the tangled hush of everything grey and greying, red flare Of winterberry like a last attempt. Tomorrow I’ll wake up on my side of the bed again, Edge-worn. Again I will sweep over The bare floor of my heart.
4. Winter now and the children will be hungry. I will make soup every Tuesday afternoon.
after Charles Wright
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Crab Orchard Review