Still, yesterday, we sat at lunch.
Servers and cooks gathered
at the door to watch a storm,
holding their aprons and nodding.
He offered to get the car,
and I watched him run across the street,
hunched to keep it out of his face, striding.
Slick from the rain,
his car was covered in white blossoms,
dotting the roof and slope of the hood.
I rushed out when he was still
down the street, U-turning.
“Sorry,” I said, climbing in,
“I didn’t think you would get closer.”
Then We Become Strangers
Last night I dreamt my nailbeds molded.
my ankles stiffened,
the skin on my face peeled away.
When you ask what I’m thinking, I tell you
about the brown shoes in the art exhibit,
suspended from the ceiling by fishing wire,
swinging like dancers, meeting briefly.
You reach over,
rub a smudge off the dashboard.
About the AuthorDeja Earley's work has previously appeared in Irreantum, Brooklyn Review, Apple Valley Review, and Lilliput Review, and is forthcoming in a half dozen other publications, including Borderlands, Blue Mesa Review, Poet Lore and Talking River Review. She is currently pursuing a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Southern Mississippi.
Read Pif on Kindle
Tell Us What You Think
Loading ...Books We Love
