Photo by Zoltan Tasi
Give Grace
Blair Martin
I’m transfixed by the red puff
(of what?), crumbled scratch paper,
the clumps of dog hair–
is that a pushpin? All cuddling together
behind the brown sofa leg.
We had a whole conversation,
an agreement, you even wrote it
in your leathered planner
with your fancy felt pen. Monday’s
for sweeping. I’d be in class, so you’d
be the one. And when I mentioned it?
The bladed recollections you drew,
fine lines and deep cuts. Macing me
with petty eyes, your lower lip sulking
as you opened the microwave:
instant noodles, long remembrance.
Keys clatter in the lock; you’re home.
Small bullets of frustration’s lint
tumble from your pockets
as you rant about your new
coworker and his bubblegum behaviors.
You crash body down to cushion,
soft sighs, slumping chest.
The clutter and I are galvanized
in ferocious debate. You nuzzle
the dog and I’m pulled, inhale
by exhale, to the slope
of your left shoulder, embraced
by your apricot knit sweater,
a tiny freckle resting
in the nape of your neck.
I glance at my watch, it’s early
in the evening. Not the drizzly
morning when your cruddy sedan
will be more candy wrapper
than car. When I’ll lose my best set
of paintbrushes to a wall
of unwashed garments.
I reach for the broom.
Blair Martin
I’m transfixed by the red puff
(of what?), crumbled scratch paper,
the clumps of dog hair–
is that a pushpin? All cuddling together
behind the brown sofa leg.
We had a whole conversation,
an agreement, you even wrote it
in your leathered planner
with your fancy felt pen. Monday’s
for sweeping. I’d be in class, so you’d
be the one. And when I mentioned it?
The bladed recollections you drew,
fine lines and deep cuts. Macing me
with petty eyes, your lower lip sulking
as you opened the microwave:
instant noodles, long remembrance.
Keys clatter in the lock; you’re home.
Small bullets of frustration’s lint
tumble from your pockets
as you rant about your new
coworker and his bubblegum behaviors.
You crash body down to cushion,
soft sighs, slumping chest.
The clutter and I are galvanized
in ferocious debate. You nuzzle
the dog and I’m pulled, inhale
by exhale, to the slope
of your left shoulder, embraced
by your apricot knit sweater,
a tiny freckle resting
in the nape of your neck.
I glance at my watch, it’s early
in the evening. Not the drizzly
morning when your cruddy sedan
will be more candy wrapper
than car. When I’ll lose my best set
of paintbrushes to a wall
of unwashed garments.
I reach for the broom.