The Sand Hill Review               http://www.sandhillreview.org 2009

His World

New York chill and wind, blades of wind like the flat of a sword

he lies tangled in one sheet

the quilts thrown off

don’t ask me

why we quarrreled Wednesday

that was Wednesday’s quarrel.

He lies in the remnants

of last night’s love

and when he wakes and washes

Come here (C’mere, he’d say)

Sit by me

Ask me to explain something easy

Like the Milky Way

this turmoiled country

the veer of traffic

and I will have no answers

for the red breakfast banquette.

To the west lies the river, whose tides

and currents we are powerless to curb.

An old wound complains.

There is salt on our skin. There are fingertips.

Elizabeth Chapman