By twinkle
Date: 2008 Jul 29
Comment on this Work

One year

I put on my sweater; the one for summer
threadbare, its getting holes
near the pockets

July, its raining outside,
your side of the bed is cold
I call you on my way to work
your voice a lake of sweet tea

The star lilies you gave me to celebrate
are half bloom
half bud
filling the kitchen with white light
taking part of my silence into its folds


when I hear you
play the mandolin, something in me
bends down
to cry


the day you got back
from Kabul, I was too thin
and we fought about the next time
you'd be gone

by the time we got home, we were speaking
again and then not speaking
the halls thick with our hunger
our bellies warm beneath the sheets