by Laurin Becker Macios

Published in Issue No. 191 ~ April, 2013

after George Herbert


An empty bed in an empty house, the faucet dripping slowly.

One bite out of two chocolates in a box of bitter truffles.

A small hand and a larger hand slicked with sweat, pushing back hair.

The car trunk left open overnight.

Waking from a dream where everything was grey.

An hourglass. A pear. A shirtless woman

with her back to you.

The hands that sculpted our bodies

illuminated finally by a tired sun.

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Laurin Becker Macios was born in Florida and raised just short of everywhere. She has her MFA in Creative Writing Poetry from the University of New Hampshire and is program director of Mass Poetry. She lives in Boston with six plants and one wicked awesome husband.