by Luke Hathaway
I feel that I could weather death
if only I could tell you of it after.
It’s amazing what we’ve made all right
around this kitchen table. But how
could I relate, beyond the stopping
of the blood, the breath, the stopping
of relation? That’s no country. Perhaps,
she said, taking up her glass—lifting
her glass of sea-dark wine—that’s why
I spend such time telling you of it now.
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Published in Arc 62: Summer 2009 |