selected past writing at 42opus
Hewitt wakes to find his arm asleep beneath his wife's neck. The old patchwork quilt is gone, kicked to the floor during the night and now only the top sheet remains between them and the cold draft from the cracked windowpane. He watches her shoulders rise and fall with each breath—tries to match her rhythm. Before getting up he kisses her back, between her shoulder blades, and she shivers, pulling the sheet to her chin. He slides his arm out from underneath her, sits on the edge of the bed and shakes it to regain feeling. His feet search the cold wood floor for his slippers. She stirs.
"Where are you going?" she asks.
To him, the problem with a public library was that it had too much sincerity about it. Everything was so nonprofit and earnest. Even the posters showed a pacifist propriety. He felt judged by the public library.
The body was one thing we always had
in common, even when between us
a continent unfolded. Eric says,
"We scattered his ashes beneath the Japanese Maple
here behind the house." No ceremony,
as you wished, but this…
6 December 2009 | poetry
I pulled a pocket watch from one of the
bodies tonight. It looks very old, has
diamonds as white as the droppings of an
aspen married in ash to a new earth.
Our sweet extinct are cheering in heaven!
22 July 2010 | poetry