Bio Note: I teach phillerphobby at Boston University and live on my own in Wakefield, MA. I scribble fiction and essays when I’m able and, if I can’t help it, verses. Here is one of the latter on the theme of sudden departures with a little about the reasons for them.
first thing after breakfast, between math and gym, in the fifth hour of a moonless night, while somebody was locked in the bathroom, im richtigen Augenblick, between littoral and piedmont, down the cellarway, on a twelve-speed bike, during the halftime show, while remarking outsides are roomier than insides Her hair’s fragrance is so sweet yet his liberty’s so dear; tonight he’ll kiss her feet— tomorrow he’s not here. deciding between snare or love, weighing a species of duty against a cunning trap, just after recess, according to plan, despite a blizzard, between Act Two and Act Three, dodging around the corner, before even knowing what she was up to thereafter there’s much dull placidity and olive inanity of backyard grass, gatherings of English sparrows, Sunday silences, private migraine moaning, unshared doubts and teleologies, a solitary and vacant domain. pull that taffy, stretch that gum until the gossamer thread severs in stillness like a couple who never should’ve wed. before learning how full the world is of doorknobs, between white sheets that made their legs look tan, prior to becoming disillusioned with commodious salles de bain, while distinguishing phony from unfeigned, decades-old clouds cast shadows over static lawns and then blew off, bugged out. Consolation is the pleasure of soothed pain. They were sometimes one: a May night in the rain when they got drunk and laughed like they’d gone insane; when she crooked her finger saying, Do that again. Consolation is the pleasure of soothed pain. Into dusk or dark, between dawn and forenoon, lassoed horse from makeshift corral, embezzler from cubicle, hog from sty, fledgling from nest into a cheerless mist of possibility.
©2020 Robert Wexelblatt
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