Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2015  v14n1
an online journal of literature and the arts
 print preview

Nine Miles outside Comfort, Texas

Not cold enough yet
for snow, but nearly numb

fingers by the time I finish
pumping the cheapest gas,

wishing I felt more
when you touched me.

Wet trees & idling trucks,
a whole shelf of expired

pain relievers in back
& behind that the game

where you pay a hook to drop
grasping for the tail of some

bright half-buried animal.
We keep trying

but I’ve never seen
someone leave this county

with anything softer
than ash in their arms.  end  

return to top