Moving slowly among her solemn friends,
she speaks of him in the present tense.
Hail flays the roof, its jagged sound immense,
but only for a minute. Anger spends
so quickly, unlike grief. Now rain
trickles through the eaves as down a drain—
minuscule, unceasing. Soon
the darkened windows will reflect
this room, encase if not protect
faint faces from the night. A loon
on the bright but muted television floats
across an evening pond. She knows
its spiraled wailing call that goes
and goes, its nimble dive when a boat
drifts in too close. She sighs. Isn’t it late?
All afternoon her feet have ached,
her leather pumps spattered with mud.
Finally, in unbroken pairs, her guests
depart with “stay strong, get some rest.”
The rain maintains its minor flood.
—Peter Vertacnik
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Art Criticism for Art’s Sake (ft. Michael Clune)
In the latest installment of the ongoing interview series with contributing editor Mark Bauerlein, Michael Clune joins…
A Clean, Well-Lighted Place with Wifi
As waiters glide across the room,espresso steams beside my bookon the small, round table.The low purl of…
The No / The Yes
Nothing terrifies more than the Noyour lover whispers through a closed door:You may die for all I…
