Monday, April 23, 2007

high school sweetheart

The dog pants in the warm night.

The children turn over and kick their covers off,
of faster bikes and bigger playgrounds
and longer swimming days.

His wife snores in the bed
while he stares out into the night,
and remembers another face.

She had the prettiest hands.

And suddenly he remembers who he was back then with her,
Ball player, world by the tail

And the weight of his soft belly and his thickening thighs
Holds him fast to the earth

and brings him back to now with a snap.

She had the prettiest hands, he thinks with a smile,
and bends, kissing his wife
wondering how on earth he ended up so lucky.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


How unspeakably awful

to have to hope

your child's last moment

was a 'What was that?'

and not a 'Oh God it hurrrts....'

Thursday, April 12, 2007


My God, she's scared.

It wasn't so bad when they found the lump, though her husbands suddenly probing fingers and his shuttered white face will haunt her.

But now this period. That won't stop.
She's always been a four-day girl. And now it's day eleven, with no end in sight.

She's tired of stained panties and putting on a good face and assuring everyone she's fine, damnit,
when all she wants to do is cry.

What if this is it?
What if this is all there is?

What if they don't remember?

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


Packed into scenic shoeboxes by the bay,
the commuters crouch, staring.
Their glass-bound goldfish circle uneasily.

Should they eat the fish-food?
Or each other?