Poetry > Individual Poems
"Them's her pills, the blue ones.
Blue for the blues—
like drawing the blind on the dark."
He leaves them on the table
where she can reach, her hand
a pale wing dusting the dark grain.
Light is gathering in the garden,
bright pools draw the eye,
liquid-cool. Surprised
by this Indian Summer,
a late rose luxuriates
in its trim bed, unfolds
like a girl to love.
"It's a grand day," he says,
leaving the curtain drawn.
Words have tripwires,
they implode, surface
in brief recognitions: wounds
put out like stones to step on.
If he touched her, she would cry,
break in his hand like petal, like love.
"Wednesday," he says, as if
a day might have significance,
be distinguishable from other days,
from weeks,
from years.